


to sing a loftier song

by ragequilt



Series: what we choose to keep [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, chapters 5 and 6 are rough drafts, jaskier's pov, reader insert (in a way), shani continues to have a made-up personality because of who i am as a person, story on indefinite (possibly infinite) hiatus, unrepentant self-indulgent fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragequilt/pseuds/ragequilt
Summary: Go back to Oxenfurt for the winter, he thought. It'll be convenient, he thought.or,FiveSix times Jaskier thinks he's got a handle on his crush, and one time he gives up.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion & OC, Jaskier | Dandelion & Reader, eventual Jaskier | Dandelion / reader
Series: what we choose to keep [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738132
Comments: 14
Kudos: 50





	1. the wave not yet broken

**Author's Note:**

> work title adapted from [this poem](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50507/i-loved-you-first-but-afterwards-your-love) by christina rossetti  
> 'I loved you first: but afterwards your love  
> Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, here we are, because of who i am as a person. turns out i really am just frothing at the mouth for jaskier's thoughts about this whole thing -- more than 'you' could ever just read on his face.  
> SO, that being said, if you were eager to read ['to grow a winter garden'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23624122) TWICE, functionally, welcome! and if you weren't -- welcome anyway!  
> i am getting increasingly creative in attempts to do things like -- referring to the reader character without a name, so please expect uh. creative use of italics and initial caps, probably.  
> my intentions are largely to pick and choose the scenes that I want to keep or show the other side of, so don't expect a full retelling, but Jaskier's such a chatty bastard that we are still going to have ENTIRELY too many words here.
> 
> all mistakes within are my own! i would never be so confident to let someone else pick over this.
> 
> chapter title from [this poem](https://tylerknott.com/post/107614483067/typewriter-series-1018-by-tyler-knott-gregson%22) by tyler knott gregson  
> 'I am the hand frozen in blurry gesture,  
> the wave not yet broken  
> on the surface of the waters,  
> still behind me.'

When Geralt says, in not so many words, that he is going to Kaer Morhen for the winter, Jaskier… flounders. Just a bit. They’ve spent the last two winters together, slogging through snow and ice and anything else that wanted to befall them, and — it feels like being left behind in a way that waking up alone in a strange town never has.

And then Geralt says, again in not so many words, that he is willing to meet back up _on purpose_ in the spring, and —

What that really means is that he has to find somewhere to winter, because _of course_ he does but also because they need to determine where it might be reasonable to meet again. Or, he will, when he’s done internally cheering over the olive branch that Geralt has offered him.

There aren’t actually a great deal of options for places to weather the season. He could go back to Lettenhove, but that’s the worst idea he’s ever had. He could try to charm his way into some noble’s good graces to spend the winter at their estate in exchange for his lute and his voice, but that only has half a chance of working. It’s not his fault that so many of the highborn lords and ladies in Temeria and Redania both are bored of their lives and marriages, but —

Well, it doesn’t matter.

The only other real option left to him is Oxenfurt, and when he thinks back to his memories of the place — the buildings of the University, the sea so close at hand — it’s an easy enough decision to make. The city is large enough and bustling and there are surely at least a few of his friends from school that might let him stay for a little while. Or, if he has to, he’ll make his way playing in inns every day for the next several months — it is still a surprise to be in such demand as he is, even though it is also a point of pride.

When he tells Geralt his plans, the other man nods. Hums and thinks and eventually tells him to meet him between Murivel and Rinde, along the Pontar. It’s some village that Jaskier has never heard of, and that’s including that he spent a considerable amount of time with geography and history texts when he was still a student.

Still — he gets directions, or what counts for them when given by a man like Geralt — and they part ways for the winter.

* * *

Despite the few weeks he has spent traveling to _get_ to Oxenfurt, Jaskier has not actually spent much time considering the specifics of who he might stay with when he actually arrives. He knows he will find somewhere, one way or another, but —

He could talk to the Dean that was his adviser when he was still a student and look into getting a winter appointment — that would come with rooms, and likely even a stipend. But he would have to actually teach — and he does remember being a student, remembers his classmates too — and it would be less than easy to leave when spring rolled around… And there is no world where he is going to leave Geralt, who _offered_ to meet back up with him, waiting.

He could ask Shani, but for all that they have always gotten along well — her in her sharp way, him in his… own way — they have never been that sort of close.

…does he really have no other options? Has time made him remember his years at the academy more favorably than they were? He had plenty of acquaintances, he is realizing: people he got drunk with, or danced the night away with, or even fucked. But none of them would bear his company out of the blue, three years past graduation. The only reason Shani might put up with him would be because they _never_ fucked, which might make their acquaintance salvageable in a way none of his other female acquaintances are.

Well…

_She_ is an option, and the moment it occurs to him he feels like an idiot for forgetting her. How did he even manage? He decides, in that instant, as he passes through the gates to the city, that he will at least pay her a visit. Ask if she might let him stay the night, if nothing else.

Is she still with that boor Eryk? Are they married now? Is she even still in Oxenfurt? She’d mentioned taking a position as a scribe for her own adviser, but that had been _years_ ago. Things change with time — just look at him; he’s famous now, more or less. Or at least more famous than when he left.

He’d never bedded her, either, though for different reasons than he and Shani never did. And _gods_ , are there really so few people in his educational background that he liked but didn’t go to bed with?

Jaskier had liked her from — their first meeting, really. They’d both had the same professor for their grammar seminars that semester, and — Well, Jaskier has always been weak to the pull of a lovely woman. He’d not been quite so cocksure (hah!) at that stage of his life, though, and his initial move had been to — to take the desk next to hers, and hopefully strike up genuine conversation. It’s not as if he went over with the express purpose of getting into her bed, but it would have been (and would be today) a crime against his nature to see someone that appealed to him and not make at least some approach.

The seminar had begun before he figured out what to say, and perhaps he spent more of it listening to her monologue under her breath than he did listening to the subject material but —

She said something sharp and sarcastic about another classmate’s baseless line of questioning to herself, just loud enough for him to hear, and he’d laughed aloud without meaning to. The look they’d shared, when she turned to him with her eyebrow raised and clearly was trying to determine why a stranger was obsessing over her murmuring — it’d been piercing. He’s never been the same, since.

But their friendship — because it did turn into a real friendship — never turned into anything else. He would invite her out (sometimes with a bribe) to attend parties and performances, but she either never noticed the way he looked at her, or she was ignoring it. Eventually, he — well. Jaskier knows better than to push where he is not wanted, really he does, and their friendship was worth more than abating his libido.

It shouldn’t have hurt him quite so much to see her accept Eryk’s proposal. It seemed like he appeared on the scene and within a week had tied her to him. How did she even meet him? He doesn’t even know. But it had cut into him, just a little, to see her accept the advances of someone so — terrible. In personality and as a student.

Still, she found the time to hang out with him around seeing her boyfriend, and something about _not_ having the option, even remotely, to pursue her, changed his perception of their friendship. It hurt, sure, to see her with Eryk — at first, anyway. But he got used to it, and she seemed happy enough with him that he kept his remarks about the man’s abilities in mathematics and dialectic to himself.

Even when they’d parted upon graduation — he’d set out the next morning with his lute and his pack and a yearning for stories that is only mostly satisfied by Geralt’s contracts — it’d been on good terms.

If she and Eryk are still together, he won’t ask to stay. Won’t put her in the place of having to either tell him no or put up a guest that will irritate her partner — and Jaskier has always, always gotten on Eryk’s nerves.

Jaskier is on campus and approaching the library without ever consciously deciding to take that path, but — if she is still at the academy, it’s the likeliest place for her to be. It’s where she basically lived when they were students, too.

There’s someone locking up the place when he approaches, but he knows even from a distance that it’s not her. It’s a young man — when did he get old enough to find _anyone_ ‘young?’ — that he doesn’t recognize. When he asks after her, all he gets is a strange look.

“She left a while ago,” he says. “I would expect her to be at home. The way I would like to be.”

“Right, right, sorry—” Jaskier puts up his hands in surrender, apology. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where it is that she lives?”

Even in the low light — it’s getting dark earlier and earlier as winter approaches — he can see the sharp look he gets. He takes a step back, hands still up. “Please don’t mistake me; I’m an old friend, I just — haven’t been here in a while. I’m not looking to take advantage.”

The man scoffs, rolls his eyes. “It’d be more believable if you were,” he says. Jerks his head to the building across the way, closer to the gate. “Pretty sure she’s got rooms in the staff residential wing.”

They part ways before the man can get any further fed up with him, and even as he leaves, Jaskier wonders over what her peer had to say. More likely to have someone menace her than be her friend — that was the implication, wasn’t it? And he still gave Jaskier her whereabouts? It makes him uneasy, just a little, even though it has benefited him in this moment.

The staff wing is nice. Two stories and a place he had only stepped foot into a couple of times during his enrollment. He’d never had to fuck the professors for his grades, unlike _some_ people. And in retrospect, he thinks a great deal of the staff had barely tolerated him, but — well, it’s not like he can hold that attitude against them.

He finds the matron of the place by accident — or she finds him, perhaps, though he invites it by walking around looking incredibly out of place. He knows he’s dirty from the road, and other things besides.

“Can I help you, young man?” she asks him in a tone that says, instead: ‘what exactly are you doing here?’

He tells her forthrightly and she looks surprise, but the expression is gone before he can remark on it or even think too much of it. He also has to promise her, three separate ways, that he means _her_ no ill, but he does eventually charm the woman. It’s almost comforting to know that she is protected in such a way, on this level, with the juxtaposition of her colleague’s attitude before. Or maybe the matron is just proud of her job, but either way it does count.

He heads upstairs and finds the doors to be (thankfully) numbered, and it seems like people’s personalities have spilled out into the hallway besides. Potted plants sitting next to a mat against the wall, or a wreath on the door itself, things like that. _Her_ door, however, is plain, undecorated in any way, and that, at least, seems in line with her personality. Or what he remembers of her — no frills, in most regards.

He takes a steadying breath before he knocks on the door — he may be a renowned performer, now, but he can still suffer from nerves and unfortunately he _is_ suffering. There’s a long silence, a long wait of him shuffling in place in this clean hallway while he looks up at the peephole in the door, and then — it’s thrown open.

She jumps him. There’s no other word for it. He barely gets even a moment to look at her before she’s in his arms, pulling him into the tightest hug — the only hug — he’s had in weeks. If not longer.

“It’s good to see you too, darling,” he says, unable to keep the fond petname or the happy laughter bottled up. This is so much better a welcome than he could have hoped for.

She pulls back after a long moment — he’s not going to complain, about any of it — and as she looks at him, he looks in return. She’s dressed down, wearing a robe that falls past the knee. It’s a deep and lovely blue that brings out the color of her skin. She’s not wearing shoes, and he distantly thinks — oh, even her toes are cute.

She makes a noise before he can begin to kick himself for — for that out-of-place thought, because he is a better man than that — and she backs up into her rooms with an expression that tells him to follow.

“Make yourself at home, won’t you?” she asks, and Jaskier won’t argue that, ever. He takes his lute and his pack off, leaving them next to the door on the other side of a surprisingly large pile of shoes and, after a moment of deliberation, removes his own boots. He’s filthy all over, but he won’t track road dust all over her clean floor.

There’s a fire crackling in the fireplace and a glass of wine on the table, amongst a pile of books and papers. She’s already walked off with the bottle — is she going to pour him a glass? Oh, this is why she was always his favorite — but there’s a book laid open on its face that catches his interest. Curious, he picks it up, careful to keep her place.

It’s called Cryptanalysis, by Sabella v Rocayne, which — is a name and a title that don’t mean anything to him. Or, don’t mean anything beyond the knowledge that her passion for ciphers hasn’t faded with time. They used to encrypt messages to one another for the sheer fun of it; it feels good to know that some things have stayed the same.

She returns with the wine, holding out a glass that he gratefully takes, and it is easy like breathing to fall into conversation.

She’s not shy about asking why he’s here, which — well, he can’t blame her. They haven’t seen one another in several years, and he hadn’t even bothered to send word. He really should have, now that he’s thinking about it.

He mentions that he has a few friends he hoped might let him stay with them and she suggests the same thought he’d had before — taking a position as a professor for the winter. He loves the way her mind looks at a problem, any problem.

Jaskier is feeling a bit nervous when he carries on, says: “if you would rather I go somewhere else, it’s no offense to me, of course. You were just—”

“Did I not just say that I missed you?” she asks, talking over him as he says “—the first that came to mind.”

And sure, she had said she missed him, but he is not unfamiliar with frivoloties of speech. They parted on well enough terms that even she — who he has seen get more than testy with peers and strangers alike — would not immediately turn him away.

Still, it seems as if the matter is settled. Apparently she truly has missed his company, considering the amount of ill-advised (in her words) shenanigans they got up to over their years of schooling. He can vividly remember at least one occasion where they went to a party, he drank _entirely_ too much, and she rubbed his back while he threw his guts up in a flowerbed.

Conversation changes routes — she wants to know about his travels, which does not mind to talk about, really, ever, except he has been walking so long and so far that he does not particularly want to relive any of them, not currently. It’s just as he’s redirecting their conversation that he remembers — fuck. He doesn’t know if she and Eryk are still together or not, and he had promised himself he wouldn’t —

“How is life as a kept woman?” he asks, feeling tense all over even as he considers what her answer might be. She’s not wearing a ring — had Eryk given her one, last they’d seen one another? Or has she never worn a ring? Why can’t he remember?

When she reveals to him that she’s no longer with Eryk, something loosens in his chest. Good, he hasn’t put her in a tight spot, that way. When she reveals that he had the nerve to _cheat_ on her, a fire blazes in him. She says “I may have made a scene,” though, in that shy proud way she has, and he is minutely soothed — and very proud of her, himself. She’d always had a tendency to internalize slights and inconveniences, willing to say sharp things but only to herself.

Still — “I knew I taught you well,” he says instead of asking where Eryk might be staying, so that he might go give the man a piece of his mind. It’d be out of line and he’s years late anyway. He presses his shoulder to hers in nice, platonic solidarity, and they move on to other topics of conversation.

As a concept, ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ has not always made a great deal of sense to Jaskier. He has left scores of people behind, mostly on good terms, but he does not particularly miss the specifics of any of them. Can’t even remember most of their names, most of the time, except for a handful of significant nobles — and that’s just so he doesn’t walk into the wrong court.

Perhaps, he thinks, as they drink and talk and a once-dormant flower blooms anew in his chest, it is the returning that matters. He hadn’t realized how _much_ she made him smile, or laugh, or feel, before he saw her for the first time in three years.

It is _good_ to talk to her, in every possible way. They talk about the taste of the wine (fruity, the sort of thing he’s pretty sure she has always liked), the work she’s been doing (lately, several translations of magical texts from the Elder language into something more readable by someone who doesn’t speak the language), even some of his travels (mostly about places he has been, because he may not miss the people particularly but he does deeply love Novigrad.)

It is only in the back of his mind that he twists his thoughts around this renewed crush on her, and he resolves to keep it to himself — most especially if she is going to let him stay for any extended amount of time. Even he can be sensible enough not to endanger his lodging, though the idea is suggested by a voice in the back of his mind that sounds remarkably like Geralt.

Still, it’s not as if her feelings regarding him could have changed. She was never interested before — even people that he didn’t end up going to bed with had a — a way that they looked at him. A way their manner changed when they caught him looking. And she has never had either of those things. He wasn’t interested in doing it before, and it holds true now — he will not impose his feelings where they are not wanted. Even if they _could_ have a very romantic winter together.

She yawns in the middle of a sentence about the transitive cipher in the book she was reading before and draws his attention back to her. It’s growing darker in the room now as the fire dies down, and she does look rather tired. Her empty glass is hanging loosely from her fingers; her arms are crossed over her chest as if to keep herself upright, or possibly warm.

“Looks like it’s time for nice young ladies to get to bed,” he says, feeling instantly a bit like a creep for wording it in such a way, but he carries on. He’ll have to work on his brain to mouth filter later — this is important in a way that his only other regular relationship is, and there are all sorts of things he _doesn’t_ say to the Geralt, no matter what the man thinks.

To avoid disaster, he takes the wineglass and puts it on the table, and she yawns again into the palm of her hand but doesn’t otherwise move. “C’mon, up we go,” he encourages, taking one and then both of her hands, levering her to her feet. It’s muscle memory, mostly — he’d put her to be more than once in their carousing days.

The time really has gotten away from him — the moon is high in the sky through the crack in her curtains, but at least they hadn’t gotten completely out of control with their drinking. Perhaps that’s because he wasn’t egging her on; he’s always been the bad influence of the two of them.

Jaskier sits her down on the mattress, reaching behind her to pull back the blanket, and she puts a hand on his shoulder. Her grip is firm and when he looks back at her, she is already staring up at his face.

“I don’t have a guest room,” she says seriously, voice hushed. He had — sort of assumed, considering the layout of the place.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he assures her, and when he says it’s nicer than sleeping on the ground outside, he means it.

She’s still holding on to him, but her eyebrows are furrowed like she’s thinking, and he watches her do it. Tomorrow — tomorrow, he’ll tamp down this crush. For now, for this long moonlit moment, he is going to look at the shadowed line of her brow and yearn to place a kiss there.

“ _Or_ ,” she says, drawing his eyes to her mouth. “You can sleep in here. If you want.” _What_? She pats the bed behind her with her free hand, and he schools his face as best he can to hide his surprise. Is she truly so trusting of him, or does she feel obligated to offer?

“You don’t think that’s a bit improper?” he asks, trying to give her an out and leaning back out of her personal space. He’d rather die than pressure her into anything that might lead him to be near her unwanted — but she snorts at him.

“As if you have ever been concerned with propriety, _Julian_ ,” is her retort, and he can feel the way she said his name in his chest. The pained noise he makes as he clutches his heart is only half-dramatics.

She kicks him — admittedly gently — when he blusters something about her impugning his character, but mostly words are coming out however they want to right now. He says, though, with purpose: “if you want, I will warm your bed.” That he tacks a ‘my lady’ on to the end is to just play into the way she has clearly perceived him as being as over the top as he ever is, and he is willing to wear that guise right now.

Gods above, she’s inviting him into her bed, and whether it is platonic or not (it _is_ ) he has so many vivid memories of the way she’d used to curl up against his side when they’d stayed the night together. He really has never been concerned with propriety, and though she was never so blatant as he was, he doesn’t think she much cares either.

He encourages her down into the sheets, to get comfortable, and steps out of the room. There’s just enough light that he can navigate the den, crossing to the table against the wall where there is a basin of water and a few folded rags. He’d seen them when he came in, but —

No matter the circumstances, if he is going to share her bed, he is not going to be covered in stinking road dust to do it. It takes some time to wash up, and he uses it to try and calm his heart and his mind. It doesn’t mean anything romantic for her to offer to share her bed — it didn’t before, and it surely does not now. He won’t make more of this than it is — she has _always_ been a good friend to him, and he would not impugn that by trying to make it more when her feelings are not reciprocal. He will take the romantic manner he views his entire life with and turn it off in her presence, so that he does not misread any situation that they might find themselves in.

He changes into his cleanest pair of trousers, unwilling to dress down to his braies, but he does leave his doublet with the rest of his things. Jaskier steadies his nerves as he returns to the bedroom, feeling, almost, as if he has his silly heart under control.

Of course, when he climbs into the empty side of the bed and gets comfortable — facing away, because if not he may give in to the urge to watch her sleeping face and _that_ is monumentally creepy — she messes it up for him. The press of her body against his back warms his outsides and his insides, a blooming heat that starts in his chest and pools in every empty space in him. Melitele preserve him, he’s doing his best.

She snuffles against the back of his neck and he stays as tense as he possibly can, to keep from — reacting, or making a noise, or anything. She seems to be well on her way to sleep again, but despite his tiring day, it takes him much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the moment, at least, i do not have too much to say! please consider leaving kudos or comments; they feed the little wood stove in my heart.
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](https://ragequilt.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/ahrhi_169)!


	2. if you need from me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to chapter two! inexplicably this is LONGER than winter garden ch2, and I blame it entirely on Jaskier's chatty brain. (And, admittedly, additional scenes, but really it's his fault.)
> 
> All mistakes are my own, so let me know if you see anything that's just truly painfully misspelled or missing a comma or -- you know.
> 
> chapter title from [this poem](https://tylerknott.com/post/110828145572/typewriter-series-1052-by-tyler-knott-gregson) by tyler knott gregson, because of who i am as a person  
> 'I can be  
> (if you need  
> from me)  
> any and all things'

It turns out that she really is willing to let him stay for the duration of the winter. It also turns out that she really is okay with sharing her bed the whole time, too, which he is… getting used to.

He was skilled enough — or lucky enough, or both — to get agreements from several inns in the city to play one or two nights a week in their space. He shows up in the afternoon and plays through the night, even though it wears him out. That _is_ the life of a performer, after all, though perhaps he has been spoiled by playing mostly just for Geralt and occasionally for their dinners or a room in an inn somewhere.

Still, he makes an incredible amount in tips, which makes it worth it. He fields requests every night to play ‘Toss a Coin,’ which brings him no small amount of delight — though he doesn’t fulfill every one, or he’d never play anything else. He gets _attention_ from all sorts: handsome young men, beautiful experienced women, and everyone in between. There is even a gaggle of girls — too young for him to look twice at, honestly — that seem to have worked out his performing schedule and follow him throughout the week. None of them have spoken to him, but he sees the trio watching him raptly and giggling together in turns at whatever their table of choice is for the night. He gets a hot meal while he’s there — sometimes for free, sometimes for some of his hard-earned coin, sometimes a gift from someone in the audience — and he eats before he heads home.

And — it really does feel a bit like home. When he’s not performing, that’s where he is, and it’s enjoyable in a way he didn’t expect it to be. Her quarters have become more than just a place to rest his head, and it’s only been a few short weeks.

She has her own work, of course, and is gone until after he leaves to play in the evenings. But she is either late going to bed (likely) or purposefully stays up to see him home (a farce woven by the romantic in him), and they sit by the fire and discuss their days before retiring to bed. He has long-since made it a point to get breakfast every morning, since he still manages to wake before she does and since she would probably starve without him feeding her. She skips lunches and he thinks even dinner sometimes, and it drives him up the wall with concern for her health. He would love such regular and easy access to food, though it would come at the expense of the lifestyle that he otherwise enjoys.

Still, it has bugged him enough to put him to action, and he has a standing arrangement with one of the commissary’s girls to bring up a tray of dried meats and cheeses if she doesn’t see _her_ come through during the day. Worst case scenario, she’s eaten lunch already and it’s something to snack on later. Best case scenario, she _actually eats something_. It seems to be working fairly well so far, at least enough that he feels better about the whole thing.

He likes going to get breakfast himself, though. Early morning makes the building feel like a different place; it’s still mostly dark outside and the kitchens are a spot of life in an otherwise sleeping building. Everyone there knows him by name, too, because he has never been able to resist the opportunity to stop and chat with someone.

Today is the coldest one so far, and he’s a bit shivery as he gets out of bed. She rolls over into his vacated spot (like always, he does not too-fondly think), and he pulls on the robe that she’d found last week at the market for him. He is no stranger to owning fine clothing, but it is special to him — a gift from a friend.

His first point of order is to get the fire back up and going again; they’d banked the embers for the night and he is not quite interested in turning into ice while he gets dressed. Besides, she’s grumpy enough on a warm morning. He’ll never convince her out of bed if it’s freezing.

Once the fire is starting to lick merrily at the logs he’s added to the fireplace, he goes back to the bedroom, to put on some trousers. They’ve achieved a level of comfort with one another that has them both dressed down into just their underthings most nights — it’s warmer that way, too. But the matron and the commissary girls won’t appreciate him showing up in his smallclothes and a robe. Perhaps it’s the laziness of domesticity, but he doesn’t bother putting on a doublet. He just keeps the robe and tucks his feet into his boots for a quick jaunt down to the kitchens.

Even though the commissary is full of light and heat, it’s still a quiet atmosphere. Most mornings he comes in full of life and chatter himself, but the people that like him best aren’t at their normal stations this morning — the wispy girl he’d persuaded to bring up lunches, the stout woman that always teases him for his reaction to warm bread. He knows them by name — has a knack for names, so long as they’re relevant — but the matron is still not his biggest fan and he’s not too much interested in distracting her girls and catching her ire for it.

So, instead of standing around and chatting, the weight of the woman’s eyes on his back spur him on. He gathers their normal breakfast: fresh bread, porridge, and whatever seasonally appropriate fruit is on hand for the day. Today it’s a bunch of grapes that has his mouth watering to look at them, even though he knows the ones they’ve bought at the market always taste better.

He’s got plenty of practice now in making it upstairs without dropping anything, and he sets the tray on the table before heading back to the bedroom. It’s much warmer now, more in the den than anything, but he doesn’t think she’ll fight him too much getting up. Sometimes he wonders how she made it _without_ him, but the nicest answer he can think of is that she’s just gotten used to him. And really, he rather likes it. Likes getting to tiptoe into the room, getting to put his hand on her warm shoulder and gently shake her until she wakes. Nothing weird about that.

Even though it is warm, she is still her grumpy self for a fair stretch of breakfast. She always is. He’d learned that early on, and now he is in the habit of working on his notes while he eats. Otherwise he’d talk her ear off and catch her annoyance for it, and — he likes cross looks on her face even less than he likes them on Geralt’s, really.

“What are your plans tomorrow?” she asks after a while, and Jaskier looks up from his journal to give her his undivided attention. She still looks a little out of it, but it hasn’t really been all that long. She’s probably still mostly asleep, which makes her wanting to talk to him even more interesting.

He deflects for no good reason — he has no plans — and teases her about her tendency to stay in bed instead of answering, taking the conversation down a path of banter that is one of his favorite roads to travel. The way that he can good-naturedly tease her and get as good as he gives in return is a highlight of his friendship with her. He looks away for just a moment, making sure the ink is dry before he closes his journal, and when he looks back up he finds her looking… wrong.

“Are you alright?” She looks a bit like a ghost — which is something he can actually say, having seen one before.

“Hm?” He can’t help but frown at that non-answer.

“You’re looking rather pale,” Jaskier tells her, scooting over and reaching out to touch her face. She’s warm — warmer than she ought to be. “And you’re a bit clammy… Do you need to stay in today? I can go make your excuses. The Dean loves me.” Mostly, her adviser is fond of _her_ , but he knows she wouldn’t like to hear that and it doesn’t matter right now anyway. What matters is the worrying way she leans into his hand instead of pulling away — they are a bit tactile, yes, but not quite like this, not all the time.

“I think I’m alright,” she insists, even though she hasn’t pulled away. His mouth is pressed into a line of its own volition.

“Are you sure? I could go get Shani on my way back,” he suggests, but she waves him off with excuses. That she’ll be fine, that she just needs to wash her face.

Watching her stagger to the bedroom physically pains him, but — it’s not like he can hold her down and make her stay in bed. Even if it would be for her own good. It shouldn’t be a surprise that she’s so stubborn even when she doesn’t feel well.

She comes back out of the bedroom some time later — he’s half lost in thought, wondering if there is _anything_ he can say to convince her to stay in and convalesce under his watchful eye. Nothing has come to mind, though, and she leaves like she’s in a hurry, before he can say much of anything. Even their routine of him seeing her to the door and wishing her a good day is disrupted: she loops her arms around his shoulders from behind the couch and bustles out of the room. He watches her go, and — makes a decision.

* * *

He hasn’t seen Shani since he came back to Oxenfurt, and he’s already half-prepared for the tongue lashing he’s going to get for it. It’s a cornerstone of their relationship, really, and something he likes about her most of the time — she never fails to tell him exactly what she thinks of whatever situation he’s gotten himself into. And it’s not like he’s _meant_ to not see her for the last three weeks, it’s just — something that happened.

Regardless of his excuses, he knows she’s not going to be happy. But he’s worried about _her_ and a bit tied up in knots about it, really. He hasn’t been anxious like this since he learned that Geralt got a bit battered on most hunts and would survive it regardless — Witchers and their healing factor have spoiled him from dealing with… something like this. Regular people don’t just ‘get over’ being sick or hurt with no extra rest or attention and —

“Wow, look who has the nerve to turn up at my door,” Shani says when he crosses the threshold into the building she has taken over for her medical practice. She’s standing behind a desk, an array of potions behind her in glass cases and a pile of papers in front of her. Her hands are on her hips and she looks — well, completely unimpressed with him, which is warranted.

“Not going to defend yourself, even? Perhaps you do know how cross I am with you,” she continues, and even though he is a _bit_ distressed, he can’t help but fall into old, familiar banter with her.

“You know how it is, my good lady. Being famous just means more and more people want your time to themselves,” he jests, giving an excessive bow.”

“I _mean_ it, Jaskier. I heard you were back thanks to the gossip mill and little else.” She folds her arms across her chest and comes around to lean against the desk, eying him sharply. Oh, she’s legitimately annoyed, more than he had expected.

“I’m sorry,” he says genuinely, because while she has always played at being stern with him, very rarely did she actually mean it. He’d let time get away from him, and now he’s hurt her feelings. That it’d been easy to get wrapped up in domestic life with _her_ is not a good enough excuse, but — “I’ve been staying with—”

“Oh, I know where you’ve been staying,” she says, cutting him off. “Tell me, are you still harboring that crush from our school days, or did you tell her how you felt before you left? Or is this just genuine friendship?” She’s watching him, judging him, and — She has such a sharp mind. There’s a reason she knows this secret, and it’s entirely through her curiosity and a pattern of observation. There’s no point in lying to her, even though he’s been trying to lie to himself lately about it.

“Just because I’ve got a crush doesn’t make it illegitimate friendship,” he says. This is not, in reality, a new argument. Even though it’s been so long that it feels like it should be new. “And that’s — kind of why I’m here.”

“What, did you finally bed her? Knock her up?”

“Gods above, Shani, no!” Does she really think so poorly of him?

“I’m only teasing,” she says, laughing, but it only feels half-true.

“We aren’t like that. She’s not — interested in me, and I’ve come to terms with that.”

“You’re _really_ convincing me that you are,” she says, unimpressed. “And just to rehash this, for old times’ sake, can you really know that she’s not interested if you don’t tell her how you feel?”

“And just like I’ve _always_ said, I can read it in her body language well enough. I won’t endanger a lovely friendship for that sort of closure. I don’t need it.”

Shani has always been a proponent for him… putting himself out there, for lack of a better term. Jaskier had sort of thought that she would get tired of finding him with some new paramour at every party they ever went to together, but this is a point she has never entirely let go of, not since the moment she dragged the truth of his crush out of him. The best part about it (right after her stalwart faith that he _deserved_ reciprocity, which is kind but not necessarily accurate) is that she let him complain about Eryk whenever he wanted (which was often.)

She waves a hand at him. “Anyway, not the point. Point is you have some groveling to do if you think I’m going to help you at the drop of a hat,” she insists, and it’s easy to fall to his knees. This could be another joke, or she could be serious this time, but — he’s never had too much pride with his real friends. She looks down at him and raises an eyebrow in amusement, and — He puts his hands on his knees and looks straight back up at her.

“I’m sorry for not coming back sooner,” he says again, and he does mean it but this rigmarole is a bit poorly timed. His stomach is still knotted with concern that he can’t quash, even though he distantly feels like he might be overreacting. “But _she’s_ sick and I — was wondering if you would check on her. For me.”

“How sick _is_ she, for you to be so dramatic about it?”

“ _Shani_ ,” he says, but she loosens up a bit. Gives him a hand up off the floor. “She just didn’t look well and — I mean, she forgets to eat half the time. I can only assume she’d have to be dying to actually seek medical attention, so —”

“So you want me to go take care of your girl for you,” she says, and he shuts his mouth with a click. He sighs.

“Not my girl,” Jaskier insists anew, feeling his mouth tick down into a little frown. “Just a very dear friend.”

“Maybe you should get a crush on me, too, so I can be a ‘very dear friend.’ It’d get me better treatment than this flighty friendship, anyway,” she says, but there’s none of her hard tone in it this time. It feels comforting, for reasons he can’t put to words.

“You know you’d kill me the way I looked at you that way,” he says instead of arguing it — another familiar conversation. Some things really don’t fade with time. “Now — please, will you check on her? Give her the best of your ability? I can pay you, of course —”

She snorts. “You can pay me in drinks, the next time you play at The Bell.”

“You really do keep up with the gossip, don’t you?” He plays there midweek, like clockwork, and he knows if she’d _seen_ him there, he would have caught her ire before today.

“’course I have. How else am I supposed to keep up with you?” She smirks, goes back around her desk. “Now tell me, where is your girl right now?”

He lets this go too — she’s just trying to rile him up, but he’s twisted too tight still to really react. “The library. I — think she’s still doing a translation for someone? Maybe one of the offices? I can come with you if you want me to, her peers like me well enough.” He sounds too earnest to his own ears, but Shani is used to keeping his overzealous heart to herself in this regard.

“I don’t think so,” she says, but her voice brooks no argument. He wouldn’t argue anyway — she’s already doing him a favor.

“Thank you, Shani. Really.” He turns to leave and a thought strikes him, has him turning back on his heel. “You will give her your very best, won’t you? I know you’re not a fan of the way I—”

“Jaskier,” Shani cuts him off again. “Don’t finish that sentence and actually offend me.” Right. Professional pride. What’s wrong with him? He really is sticking his foot in this. “I’ve got this under control. Go try to get some rest yourself, just looking at you is exhausting for me right now.”

* * *

Coming home from his performance — which had felt far too long, but was something he could not rescind upon — should be a relief. Instead of that, though, he finds her asleep on the couch, fully dressed and in the dark, and the dim scene winds him up all over again. He _knows_ Shani would have come to find him, or sent word, if her condition was dire, and she’d probably have even dragged her back to her practice to treat her. Shani is proud, that way, and stubborn too.

Still, knowing all those things doesn’t really help when she looks dead to the world.

He drops his lute case near the door and crosses the room, kneeling next to where she’s curled up on her side. Jaskier says her name softly, touching her shoulder — it’s almost like he’s just waking her for work in the morning. When it doesn’t immediately yield results, he lays his hand a bit more firmly, shakes her a bit.

She blinks open her eyes at that, looking confused, but when she says his name something in his chest loosens minutely. At least she’s lucid. Even though it’s cool in the room her skin is very warm, but clearly not warm enough to cook her brain. _That_ sounds dramatic even to him, but — he can’t help it.

He wishes the fire wasn’t so low, so that he might better see her face. There’s a stub of a candle burnt down on the table, casting only a memory of a flame, and if his hands weren’t shaking so badly he would bring it closer.

“What are you doing out here, darling?” he asks, putting one of his uselessly trembling hands on her forehead. He keeps his voice low to keep the tremulous concern out of it, because panicking won’t help. Why is he like this? She shivers.

He asks after Shani’s visit but doesn’t learn much, not really, just that she’d kept her word. It doesn’t feel right to try to grill her when she’s clearly not feeling well and isn’t entirely awake. Maybe it’d be better for her to sleep this off, though…

It takes more effort than expected to get her to bed. It’s a different experience than leading her drunken body; like this all of her weight is against him, and she feels twice as heavy as usual. She’s staggering to walk, and when she groans something about being dizzy and buries her face against his neck, she mostly stops that, too.

His mouth runs without his input, working alone while he is focused on getting her settled on the edge of the mattress, while he is doing his best to undress her. It should feel like _something_ to be doing this, but it truly doesn’t through the thrumming feeling in his chest. This is nothing special, just a necessity. The candle that he lights on the nightstand is very little to work by, but he gets the hooks of her vest undone, gets her shoes off.

Despite having gone this far, he’s not comfortable removing her trousers for her. She might be uncomfortable in the morning, but that’s a step beyond where he’s comfortable going. She says she can do it when he suggests it, though, and her voice is so hoarse that he feels like an idiot when she asks for water.

In the other room, he takes off his boots and goes to find a cup to put water in. The sideboard table is covered in all sorts of things now — knickknacks and oils and a basket and gods know what else cluttering it to the point where he can only half get to the pitcher. They’ve been discussing moving the basin into the bedroom, though they haven’t found a place yet, and if she wakes up fine tomorrow that is on his list of things to _absolutely_ do. This is just _excessive_.

Water eventually in hand, he tries not to rush back to the bedroom. Tries not to spill it. He needs to find something resembling calm, before she either catches his panic or catches him out. He’s better than this.

“Please tell me this is helping,” he asks when he’s done helping her drink, kneeling next to the bed. She settles back into the pillow, looking a bit like the tale of the slumbering princess with her hair splayed out around her head. Except she’s awake, and looking at him a bit miserably, and — “Do you want me to get a damp cloth? For your face?” He wants to touch her forehead again, to check her temperature, but he — he takes a deep breath instead.

“You’re helping,” she says, voice small but less raspy. “I’m just… tired. And cold. Should come keep me warm instead,” she finishes, as if he needed so clear a direction and — well, maybe he did. It makes him smile despite himself.

“I guess the lady knows her needs better than I do,” he manages to say, getting his face back under control. He doesn’t want to be happy while she’s like this. He checks one last time, though, just in case, and the noise she makes while she looks at him by candlelight is enough. “If you aren’t better in the morning, I’m getting Shani,” he says, very reasonably. She doesn’t argue with him, thankfully.

He strips down and climbs into the bed, pressing up against her back. If he could cover her entirely with his body and break the fever through sheer force of will, he would. Despite having said that she’s cold, she’s warm against his chest. Maybe she’s always warm like this, though — they’ve never slept this way before.

“You’ll tell me if you get too hot, or wake me up if you feel worse?” he requests, keeping his voice low. This whole arrangement feels very fragile.

“I will, I promise,” she murmurs in return, sounding worn. He lays his arm across her waist and when she takes him by the wrist he lets her rearrange him for her own comfort. It means his hand ends up near her face and his forearm is pressed to her sternum, but even his wanting heart cannot make it into anything other than a position of comfort. He buries his nose against her sweaty neck and hopes that this is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone for the very sweet comments here, and on the other fics, and the messages on tumblr and twitter. there really is no good way to put to words how much they mean to me. xoxoxo
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](https://ragequilt.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/ahrhi_169)!


	3. something we must try

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my sincerest apologies for the delay on this update. chapters 3, 4, and 5 sort of decided that they needed to be written as one big monster block, and i did not have a witcher on hand to convince them to break themselves down into cooperative pieces. 
> 
> all mistakes here are my own, so let me know if you see anything strange!
> 
> chapter title from [this poem](https://tylerknott.com/post/112807463342/typewriter-series-1073-by-tyler-knott-gregson)  
> 'Tonight my love there is something we must try  
> so reach your hand through the sheets and  
> squeeze tight to my fingers. Tonight my love'

Now that he’s gotten back into the swing of things, Jaskier is enjoying performing every night. It is structure to his life that he hasn’t had in a long time, and there is something about a routine — any routine — that soothes him. Makes the spontaneity of life feel worth a little more.

If anything, he’s gotten more popular, too. It doesn’t always mean more _coin_ , but it does mean a larger audience. What else could a bard ask for? The proprietress of The Seven Stars, where he plays on Tuesdays and Fridays, has even taken to pushing tables out of the way so people can dance if they are so inclined. (With his music, they often are.) It’s not something he’d ever expected, but it does make sense. A bigger crowd is more attention for him, but more money for her, too. It’s just mutually beneficial to play that up.

That’s where he’s to be tonight, considering it’s the end of the week. He’s had his two visits for The Lattice and Rose already, and The Bell as well — where they tip the best, out of any of them. He’s also soothed Shani’s hurt feelings (though she may never deign to refer to them as such) and he sees there more often than not, now.

The best thing about playing at The Seven Stars, tonight especially, is — the opportunity for a bit of fanciful distraction. It’s close enough to the academy that it’s not uncommon to find the sort of people that are far more liberal with their bodies there — a hotbed of opportunities for a fling or a tryst. And there are plenty of opportunities, people enough catch his eye every time he’s there, though he’s not spent much time with any of them. But one woman in particular keeps coming back, has set her eye on him, and she’s… Well, she’s a bit older than the obvious students, which makes her a real option.

Her name is Marta, he found out last week, when she caught him on his way out the front door and pulled him into the alley beside the building. Her hair had been a long dark plait over her shoulder, and he’d been encouraged to pull it when she urged his body and his mouth to cover hers against the side of the building. If she’s there tonight, it’ll be four performances in a row, and he is too familiar with the order of things to not know what will happen if she _is_ there tonight.

At this point, Jaskier is also quite sure that _She_ is staying up purposefully to see him home, which is incredibly sweet. But she’s a menace in the mornings enough as it is, and he doesn’t want her to worry, so even though he wouldn’t _tell_ her something like this, he says: “you don’t have to wait up tonight.”

She’s in the bedroom, getting ready to go to work, and he’d timed this half on purpose so he wouldn’t have to look at her face while they had this awkward conversation. Except she sticks her head out around the door and looks him in the face with a curious expression, steps out the rest of the way after.

“I’m not sure when I’ll be back,” he offers, purposefully looking at her face. She’s still doing up her clothes. And when he says “I know you’ll be a right terror in the morning if you don’t get your beauty rest,” the look of consternation that crosses her face brings him no small amount of amusement.

She does ask why he’s going to be out so late, which he had expected — hence the worry about this awkward conversation altogether. She may call him too curious for his own good, but she can be the same when she wants to be. And they are too in each other’s pockets right now for her not to want to know. He doesn’t relish the idea of telling the woman currently holding a great deal of his affection that he’s trying to get over her, though, even if it is not in so many words. _He_ knows the truth, and that is enough.

Even if Marta were not comely and sharp, with soft pink lips and an aggressiveness that heats his blood, thinking about kissing her is far better an alternative to thinking about kissing _her_. Getting over his crush is going to take time; it’s something he’s learning all too well these days.

She says “I like knowing you’ve made it in safely,” while he’s thinking, with such a soft voice that it makes his heart swell. Even though it’s just because he’s her friend and she is a consummate worrier.

This is the hard part, though. It’s not a matter of him wanting to keep his trysting a secret, or away from her — he doesn’t much care _who_ knows, when it comes down to it, and it’s not that he thinks she’ll care. But, unlike his friendship with Shani and some of his long-gone acquaintances, they don’t _talk_ about sex. He’s not sure if she’s shy or uninterested or — or what. So, really, he just tries not to bring it up, to be polite and respect her boundaries. He’s a man of multitudes, no matter what anyone may think ( _Geralt_ ), and there are _plenty_ of topics that don’t have to do with what’s in his pants.

“I’m going to be sleeping somewhere else tonight,” is what he eventually says, completely off-script, after what feels like too long.

“Have you finally tired of my snoring?” she asks, fingers lingering on her buttons. He looks back up at her face and finds her looking curious, smile on her lips. As if; the sound of her breathing next to him is soothing. Nothing like the ear-splitting racket his dorm mate used to produce, and nothing like the near-silent way that Geralt gets at night when he rests.

“Believe me, my dear, that you are one of the best long-term bed partners I have ever had,” he says without considering how it sounds — this is _why_ he’s spent the last day trying to figure out what to say. He carries on in an attempt to scrub some of the useless vagueness from the air — admits that he will likely be bedding Marta tonight (or being bedded, perhaps, though that is more an observation of her aggression, and not something he says regardless.)

She asks a few more questions; this really is more talk of his proclivities than they’ve ever had, but it’s _not_ so bad after all. It feels like she’s asking ‘why?’ without really saying it, and he says “a man has needs, after all,” instead of even thinking about the truth of it. And that is not to say that he does not enjoy sex, or that he does not find Marta to be very attractive. Both of these things are true.

But his mindset going into this is not what it normally is, for a host of reasons that begin with him being settled for the winter and end with him desperately needing a distraction from his foolish heart. He does not want to admit that to her, though — won’t even suggest the thought of it.

She goes back into the bedroom to finish dressing in mostly-silence, having accepted his answers. It feels good to have put it out there, to be keeping one less secret, even if it is not a significant one at face value. Jaskier turns his attention back to the journal in his lap and lets his thoughts unknot themselves while he waits for her to get ready, so he can see her off when she does leave.

When he looks up again, though, he finds that she has — already left, somehow. He must not have heard her say goodbye through his own whirling brain, and she must have been running late to not stop herself for a farewell.

* * *

Because he does truly enjoy routine, Jaskier’s days have a rhythm just like his nights do. He finishes working on part of his composition, begins to shore up tidbits so unpolished they cannot yet come off the page, and takes a midday nap.

After his nap, which he’d laid down for a bit earlier than normal, he goes to find Lidia and has a bath brought up. He may get a bit (or more than a bit, honestly) sweaty during his performance tonight, but he has the opportunity to bathe before he meets Marta tonight, and he won’t skip that. It’s not a courtesy he usually gets to provide, on the road, and a bath is satisfying in a way a scrub-down with a rag and basin just isn’t.

Once he is clean and dressed, in his second-favorite outfit (not the same _one_ he was wearing in Posada years ago, but the same color scheme), he puts the tub out into the hall and gathers his things to go to the inn for the evening. It’s early afternoon still, but getting there early just means more tips for him, and there’s no better outlet for his pent-up, anticipatory energy.

Marta does not show up until about a third of the way into his evening set. She takes a seat at the bar, with a mug of something he is willing to bet it’s some sort of mid-shelf liquor — just a thought. She doesn’t seem the type for ale.

He’s long been dancing and cavorting and whatnot as is appropriate with his music — the maudlin songs aren’t appropriate until later — and now he makes a point to dance in her direction every once in a while. To give her his flirtiest looks and relishing the way his heart jumps when she makes eyes back at him.

This is good. Both as a signal of some of her intentions for the evening, and as a distraction. Gods know he needs one.

Eventually, much later, he is played out and most of the audience is gone. There are a couple of men finishing a game of Gwent at a table near the window, and the drunkest of the drunk seem to be loitering as well.

And, of course, there is Marta.

He’d gotten some looks at her across the course of the night, of course, but he is not so bold to approach her outside the guise of his music. The way she’d taken him aside earlier in the week had said enough; had said: nothing public. She rises from her stool and heads out the door, and he watches her go. He only follows after a conversation with Lena, the owner of the place and a woman he is very platonically fond of.

He gets pulled by the wrist again as he leaves, and he goes easily as she tugs him into the alleyway once again. It’s a convenient dark place, and the walls of the buildings at either side do cut some of the cold wind away.

He finds himself pinned to the wall of the inn this time. “Hello to you too, beautiful,” he says, looking at her eyes shining in the magelight from the street.

“You have some nerve making such eyes at me in there,” is what she says, leaning up to take his mouth in a punishing kiss. He has no complaints to give — he can enjoy a woman that knows what she wants just as well as one that needs him to take the lead.

They kiss for a long time, long after she’s allowed him to put his hands on her hips. Long, long after she’s taken his lute from his hands to put it on the ground — he can appreciate her respect for his instrument, though he might prefer attention to a _different_ one — and snuck her hands into his open doublet.

He shivers, though, for reasons that have nothing to do with what she is doing to him, and it breaks his concentration. It’s _cold_ outside, and while her dress is clearly a sensible thing, his clothes are… not.

“We should find somewhere else to continue this,” he says, breaking their kiss. His voice sounds strange to his own ears, but it has been a long time since he’s been this worked up, too. While he waits for her decision he puts his mouth to work on her skin — her jaw, her neck, anywhere not covered by her warm clothes. He really is catching a chill.

She knows he functionally doesn’t have somewhere to take him back to — it’d been a half-had discussion, last time, and he thinks that’s the only reason she doesn’t argue. She seems the arguing type. She doesn’t seem much annoyed, though, even as she drags him off by his arm. He barely gets his lute in hand as she goes, but he is content to follow, and pleased to see her eager demeanor. He’s feeling rather _eager_ himself, after a round of kissing like that.

Marta leads him to a modest cottage along the aqueduct, ushering him inside and up the stairs before he has a chance to look at much of anything. And, well, he _is_ a curious man, but he is here for a purpose; he has _some_ sense of priorities. Right now he and Marta are unified in their interest to get him into her skirts. There could be a bloody altar in her den and he wouldn’t much care.

The bed that she pushes him down onto is warm and plush, with nice pillows, and that is the only thing that matters. Well — the only thing that isn’t her demanding enthusiasm, the uptick of the smirk on her face, the curves of her body beneath his hands. Those things _definitely_ matter.

After he has pleasured her in every way she seems to want — with his mouth, and his hands, and his cock — they collapse to the bed in a sweaty pile. Or, well, he collapses off to the side, which is more polite; he doesn’t want to crush her under his weight. From the way she moves even further off in her post-coital bliss, he distantly thinks it was a good decision. He’s not surprised she’s not a cuddler.

The part that comes after a tumble is almost as familiar as the act itself. He rests long enough for the sweat on his skin to dry, because if he leaves in his current state he will probably freeze before he makes it home. They share one last searing kiss as he dresses to leave, and she casually demands he return on Tuesday — a demand he is happy to fulfill, truly. It’s been a good time, but he does not spend the night as a rule, and he does not think she would want him to regardless. It’s easier to go now than it is to get kicked out in the morning.

* * *

The walk back to the academy is a bracing one. It’s beyond dark, and beyond cold — he’s half-curious as to if they’ll see any snow this year. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and makes the trip with his head down, because while he might play during the journey under other circumstances, it is very late and he does not want people to throw things at him from their windows.

He’s mostly settled from his distraction, though his heart is still thumping along too-hard in his chest. It seems to get a little better with every step toward the university, and it seems most straightforward to attribute it to the idea that — Well, he is very accustomed to being back home by this time of the night. It’s a break in routine.

The halls of the residential wing are dark and empty upon his arrival, and he does his best to quietly make his way upstairs. He knows the walls are not quite thin, here, but he feels… If this place feels like somewhere else in the _mornings_ , it feels like a third place besides in this moment.

He does make it up with no trouble, even though he is feeling a bit worn out from his eventful evening. The key she’s bestowed upon him comes quickly to his hand when he arrives at the door, and it feels like a weight is being lifted from his shoulders as he turns it in the lock.

Inside, he takes off his boots and wiggles his toes, feeling truly relaxed in a way that even his orgasm did not bring him. The fire is banked for the night, which is good — she took his advice and did go to bed. And still, it is warmer in here than it is outside, fire or no fire.

A weariness settles over him the longer he stands in the den, taking in the warm darkness of the room, and he breathes out a sigh before heading to the bedroom.

The curtains are cracked, because they inexplicably _always_ are, because despite the fact that she loves to sleep in she also seems pleased enough to wake up to the sun in the room. There’s moonlight enough to see, so he doesn’t bother with a candle. Her face is slack, smoothed with sleep; she’s turned toward the center of the bed, almost in what he has come to think as ‘his’ place on the mattress.

“Welcome back,” she says out of nowhere, a surprise that makes him jump. When he settles, he puts his hands back to task undoing his doublet, and he doesn’t resist the urge to smile down at her. She’s bleary-looking, with sleep still a heavy shroud on her, but she _is_ looking at him.

“You’re awake,” he says for lack of anything better to say — he’s well on his way to being asleep himself, and he doesn’t want to fully wake her, either.

“Barely,” she murmurs, reaching for him. His heart jerks, just once, as her arm stretches out across ‘his’ spot. If his own hands weren’t occupied and he were a little more foolish, he would undoubtedly take it. “Been spoiled by my personal bed warmer,” she continues, and that helps him settle again. She’s not reaching for him because she _wants_ him, she’s just reaching because she wants.

He gets dressed down, finally, and meets her implicit request. Getting into bed after a long night is an unfailing comfort, but this seems beyond that. Maybe it’s just a matter of finally being home.

She’s close, so close, but he’s not going to make an ordeal out of it or ask her to move. If she wants to sleep so near to him, he will not complain. It’s cold out.

She touches his hands, brought up to his chest, and seems to agree. She grumbles about his cold skin and he can’t help but laugh, mention that he _has_ just come in from the elements. It’s still nothing like the bite of the cold would be if he didn’t have somewhere so warm to return to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't have much to say. thank you all for reading -- i have endlessly appreciated every kind comment, every kudo, and every bookmark. x
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](https://ragequilt.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/ahrhi_169)!


	4. no shame in a shivering truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got another short installment today, mostly due to like, formatting reasons. It kills me to post something this short, but needs must, I suppose.
> 
> All mistakes within are my own -- let me know if you find something strange!
> 
> chapter title from [this poem](https://tylerknott.com/post/114774640272/typewriter-series-1095-by-tyler-knott-gregson)  
> 'There is no shame in  
> a shivering truth.  
> I have hands for holding hands  
> and the fading purple knows  
> they will heal again.'
> 
> (if only this was _the_ truth, but -- well. we've got time.)

Marta remains a lovely, distracting, minx of a woman. Maybe it’s not fair to think of her as a distraction, but that is how this started and he has no compunctions about the truth of the matter between them. It’s not a matter of true love, just a matter of two people falling together because they can and they want to.

Except —

He’s half-undressed and has his hands under her skirt when he hears, over the sound of their breathing, a door open downstairs. She hears it too, by the way her whole body stiffens, and his pulse spikes for a reason that has nothing to do with the bare skin under his hands.

“What was that?” he murmurs, hoping it is — anything but what he thinks. A rat infestation? A goblin?

“My husband,” she says with no ceremony or apparent alarm, which is a far cry from how he personally feels. “Time for you to go, then,” she continues evenly, stepping away from him.

 _Time for me to go indeed!_ he thinks, because if he says it he knows he will come across far too loudly. “And how should I do that?” he asks, watching her adjust her hair and skirts. He slings his lute case across his back and, when she doesn’t immediately answer, goes to the window. It’s not too high of a jump. Higher than he might like, but as long as he doesn’t land on his lute, it’ll be alright. Not a chance he likes taking, but he would rather that over taking his chances with her _husband_.

“I’ll go downstairs to distract him,” she says, and leaves without so much as a goodbye. Well — he’d never been attached, but it’s different to get a response from her like this. At least it’s sorted.

He opens the window and peers down into her back garden, grateful at least that he won’t be jumping out onto flagstones. It’s not the first or the fifth time he’s left someone’s home like this, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it. He takes a breath and braces himself, listening to her voice through the floor — a call of hello to her husband — and then he jumps for the ground.

He lands with a thud that he feels across his whole body, in all of his bones, falling to his hands and knees. His blood is pounding in his ears from it, from the rush of it, but not so loudly that he does not hear the sound of a raised voice, the creak of the back door opening.

Jaskier scrambles to his feet with only a moment spared to ensure his lute is still on his back, and then he takes off in a run.

He is a bit out of shape and didn’t do too much running in Geralt’s company anyway, but he pushes himself to go as fast as he can until the academy is at least in his sights. The guards at the bridge don’t stop him, familiar with him by now, but he doesn’t stop to chat with them like he usually does. It’s early, still, the moon low in the sky, and he makes his way home by memory as he tries to calm his body.

There’s a sound behind him, somewhere, and despite that search for calm he is still panicked enough that he decides it’s a better idea to run the rest of the way, stitch in his side be-damned. He only slows to a quick walk when he enters the building because he knows too well that Lidia _will_ kill him if he’s running in her halls. She caught him sliding down the banister one morning a few weeks ago and threatened to string him up by his ankles.

He does take the stairs two at a time, eager to be somewhere with a locked door between him and the world, and to be home besides. The door comes quickly into view, and it is with shaking hands that he digs in his pocket for the key.

He pushes the door open and turns to firmly shut it behind him, feeling relief for what must be the first time in — hours, it must be. He turns, expecting to find her looking at him with some level of confusion for his sudden arrival, probably snuggled up on the couch, and —

“Oh, gods, I’m sorry,” he blurts when he finds her stretched out in the tub near the fire. Her ankles and arms are over the edges, a glass of wine in her hand, and though he forces his gaze away before he can see anything else, he doesn’t miss the confusion he had expected to find on her face.

He stumbles taking off his boots with one hand, because the other is blocking his face from her, and she laughs at him. He can hear the sloshing of the water over the crackling fire, and he hopes she cannot see the flush in his cheeks. There is no way to blame his expression on the impromptu exercise he’s just had.

“You’re back very early, what happened?” she asks when she’s done giggling at him, and he sucks in a breath to get himself under control. He — partially succeeds, anyway.

“Turns out that Marta was a married woman!” he admits, voice so high he worries for his throat. When was the last time he was worked up like this? He abruptly misses Geralt’s aloof nature — he’s not sure he can cope with someone actively _caring_ about him right now, and he knows she will. He’s weak, in this moment.

She laughs again. He can imagine her expression when she says: “and let me guess, her husband came home?”

He confirms it, still looking away — it’s not helping, he knows her face too well. He can’t stop thinking about the pale skin of her legs, despite the fact that he’s seen her in half a dozen different undressed ways since his arrival. A bath is a vulnerable place for anyone, that’s all — of course it means something different than when she dresses down for bed.

“I should be used to it by now,” he eventually says, sighing. He really should. Why can he never seem to learn a lesson? Why is he like this?

“It happens to you a lot?” she asks, sounding confused, and —

“More often than I might like,” he says, shrugs. He should be used to this, too, by now. Perhaps he should do a better job of vetting his partners, but — he’d sort of always thought that it seemed a bit like a turn off to question someone’s honesty when they were making eyes at him. Or, maybe he’s just been going after the wrong people entirely — but who would be right, then?

She drags him out of his thoughts with an invitation that he join her, that he have a drink with her, and — that’s the worst idea he’s ever heard, right now. He won’t compromise her comfort for his own.

Except she says ‘it’s not that big of a deal,’ like she means it, and — he can be good. He’s her friend before anything else, and maybe this _would_ generally be easier to deal with in the face of Geralt’s uncaring attitude, but he has her, here, and he knows very well that she cares for him. He will make do with what he has, and cherish every moment.

With eyes on her face, because he will not stray no matter what is in front of him, he takes the bottle from her outstretched hand and picks up his glass from where it has come to live on the table. And then, because sitting on the couch would be too far for conversation, he sits on the table himself.

“Is it worth it?” she asks, apropos of nothing, and he can’t help the strange way he looks at her. She elaborates, gesturing at her throat: “the risk of getting thrown out by a jealous lover.”

He pauses in the act of opening the bottle to give her his entire attention.

“Of course it is?”

She frowns. “I didn’t mean it rudely.”

Which, he knows that, but it _is_ a very strange thing to ask, or so he thinks. He gets wine into his glass and takes a drink, forces himself into a relaxed position while he thinks of something to say. “Do you not think it would be worth it?” What has her experience been like, to ask a question like that?

“Is that a trick question?” she asks, which only makes him _more_ curious.

They bicker, for a moment, over trick questions and the stanza from last week — he really just _had_ wanted her opinion — and some of the tension in his chest and shoulders seeps away. Being with her makes it feel like the prior events of this evening never happened. “It’s not a trick question,” he insists.

He can’t stop looking at her, trying to parse what she’s going to say just from the expression on her face. He’s never seen her involved with anyone, Eryk notwithstanding. Did he hurt her? If he —

“It all just seems very overrated,” she finally says, breaking his thoughts so that they come out of his mouth instead, automatic.

“Has someone —” He gestures, can’t even finish the sentence. She shakes her head, though, and he can breathe again.

“No, it’s just always been… underwhelming. Not all it’s made out to be. Definitely not worth the risk of trouble.” She heaves a sigh, looks away toward the fire. “That you lust for everyone you meet is baffling to me.”

He plays up his faux-offense, because really — well, he _doesn’t_ , and he knows that she knows that. But telling her something more accurate — that all he wants is to be wanted, if only for a night — is something he can’t do. “It’s not lust, darling, it’s love! And not _everyone_ , I do have some taste.” Mostly, the people he dismiss out of hand are those that disrespect Geralt, or his musical talent. But most people that approach him are… good enough. And besides, it’s not a lie. He’s loved every person who has given him an iota of sexual or romantic affection and not ruined it immediately thereafter. People are _wonderful_.

“It just seems… impossible to me,” she says, sighing again. He wishes he could soothe her, but that usually comes in the form of a hug, and obviously that is not on the table. Hm.

“What does?” he asks instead, chewing on his lip.

“I mean — to love someone without knowing anything about them, I suppose?” She sounds twisted up herself, and he can’t help but smile. He’s been misunderstood in this manner before; it’s normal.

“You’ve never met someone who, by the way they hold themselves, you know immediately that you will like?” He valiantly ignores that this applies to her, for him, though of course his tied-up heart is far beyond that now.

“…not in a way that made me want to kiss them, no. Or have sex with them.” She shrugs. “I know there’s something wrong with me.”

 _What?_ “There is _nothing_ wrong with you,” he insists, words coming suddenly and of their own accord while he tries to determine exactly what has happened in the last few moments. That she could ever think she was anything other than exactly right, exactly as she should be — His voice comes out softer this time: “I can’t say I personally experience it, but you’re not —”

She cuts in again. “Broken? A freak of nature? Melitele’s disgrace?” The bitterness in her voice is palpable, makes his heart hurt for her. How long has she been having these thoughts without him knowing? How long has she been feeling this way?

“Absolutely not,” he insists, putting his glass aside and taking her hand instead. He can’t hold her the way he wants to, couldn’t force all these terrible thoughts out of her with a good hug regardless, but — he needs to comfort her, however he can.

“You don’t have to sweeten it for me; I’ve accepted it,” she returns, sounding defeated. He frowns.

“Darling, you’re _not_ alone in this,” he tries, again, squeezing her hand in both of his own, now. She goes — very still.

“I’m… not?” Her attention on him is rapt now, and she turns to face him, to focus on him, putting her chin on her arm on the edge of the tub. Wine sloshes in her glass; he’s surprised she’s not spilled it yet. “Tell me everything. Please.”

As if he could ever tell her no.

He takes the glass from her unsteady hand, using it as a long moment to help get his words right, to put his thoughts into order. Everything he knows he has learned from other people, from conversation and long nights chatting over a drink or two. It’s not his own experience, but if it can reassure her at all…

“Do you feel that attraction at all?” he asks, continuing on to list options for her. People are a thousand different things, and he knows he’s not covered _everything_ , but this is a good place to start. Is she not interested whatsoever, or only under certain circumstances? What is in her heart? He wants so badly to know.

She makes a little noise, mouth moving while she thinks. She looks unsure again, her once-rapt interest falling away to reveal that nervousness, and he squeezes her hand again.

“There’s no wrong answer,” he offers, and then closes his mouth to let her figure it out.

For a long moment, she continues to think. And then — “I suppose I didn’t know there was an option,” she says quietly. “I thought it was… all or nothing? I really thought there was something wrong with me.” The soft, insecure tone of her voice — it sounds so much unlike her. It twists the knife in his chest. He’d be foolish to think that he could protect her from every injury to her heart, but gods does this feel like a failure on his part regardless.

“I’m so sorry for you to have been in that position,” he says. He doesn’t ask ‘why didn’t you ever tell me?’ because — he can only imagine what is going on in her head, right now.

She closes her eyes, takes what seems to be a steadying breath. “It’s why Eryk and I didn’t work out, you know,” she says, and —

“Really.” He’s surprised by that, though he doesn’t have the abliity right now to work out the ‘why.’

“I didn’t… Didn’t want to lay with him, but I didn’t know how to tell him no, either,” she continues. Her stilted word choices would be cute, if this weren’t so tense a situation between them. “Convinced him I was saving myself for marriage. Thought he was wonderful, when I didn’t have to worry about him wanting to have sex with me.”

His brain skips over the idea that she would have _married_ Eryk and rests on the other important piece: she dated a man that wanted to bed her even though she wasn’t interested in that at all? Because she didn’t know how to say no? And Eryk was more interested in getting his cock wet than cherishing her for the wonderful woman that she is?

He’s getting off-track mentally, distracted physically, and he takes a deep mental breath. There’s something else he needs to know — “So have you never…?” He’s not sure how to ask if she’s been untouched her entire life. If she _wants_ to go untouched for the rest of her life. Disregarding the conversation weeks ago about Marta, they _do not_ discuss these things. And, realistically, maybe it’s none of his business, but that doesn’t occur to him until after he’s already damned himself with the question.

She looks embarrassed, suddenly. “I— I have, before. A long time ago.” It’s still better than shame, and he reaches out to tweak her nose, to break the tension even a little before it crushes them both.

“I love it when you talk like you’re an old woman,” he says, and when she laughs it feels like success.

The tension fades away when the topic changes, though he thinks it’s still on her mind. He doesn’t stay at the bathside — unable to bear that proximity in a casual manner, and also because it feels a bit invasive — he walks about and keeps her company while they finish off the bottle of wine. She seems soothed and his pounding heart has thankfully long-since found some way to slow done.

The worst, best thing about their friendship is that she is so, so easy to spend time with. Shani would have run him out at least once already, if not threatened him with bodily harm. Geralt doesn’t go more than three days (he’s counted) without telling him to shut up or scolding him for something — which is his prerogative, and very normal, but still a far cry from this easy domestic comfort that he is able to share with her.

There is no doubt that he _will_ go to meet Geralt when winter ends, but it is going to be very hard to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not too much to say today! looking VERY much forward to the next chapter, with hopes that I can reasonably keep it as -- just one chapter, instead of turning this into a 6+1 fic (which just doesn't hit the same frankly)
> 
> thank you everyone for the comments, and the kudos, and the love. <3 
> 
> come find me on [tumblr](https://ragequilt.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/ahrhi_169)!


	5. chapter 5 rough copy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as is the way with hyperfixations in my life, i lost my steam very abruptly in the witcher fandom and now it's been five weeks but i'm also sitting on two chapters worth of rough draft that i don't have the heart to give a good edit or to just -- throw away
> 
> and I got a rather sweet anon on tumblr, today, asking after chapter five, so I thought -- well, even an unpolished (and unfinished, considering chapter six) rock is better than no rock at all
> 
> so: this is unbeta'd, which is normal for me, but it is also unrevised by yours truly. it might be a rough read, but I wanted it out here in case it was something that you all did want to put your eyes on.

Jaskier is no longer seeing Marta, obviously. That was a foregone conclusion the moment he leapt from her bedroom window. When he leaves to head to The Seven Stars the next week, he goes the long way and drops by the home of the herbalist that hawks her wares at the market on the weekends. There’s a convenient little sign outside her door that marks her home, even though he’s gone a fair distance out of his way to come by.

The woman is pleased enough to see him — seems to remember him, which remains half-surprising and half-expected, at this point. She’s in the middle of cooking something, making some stew he can taste on the air, and she shows him to the table of goods left over from her last market visit.

He’s not surprised by the uncommon arrangement — it’s not as if she keeps her home on the off-chance that a customer might drop by. And besides, she doesn’t rush him, lets him smell every vial of bath salts she has (and rustles up a few she’s been working on, apparently, once she sees where his interest lies.) He turns over a few coins for one that smells of chamomile and rosemary, and bids her a good evening before he gives into the urge to buy every single item in her possession out of a schoolboy desire to try to bring _her_ some joy. Still — the one vial is enough. Should make for a nicely relaxing bath, he thinks.

Lena greets him when he enters, a bit later than usual. Jaskier really _had_ lost some time at the herbalist’s, but his choice had to be exactly right. It was a price he was willing to pay.

He chats with her for a little while — her daughters are young, and underfoot, and have a thousand questions for him, but he knows that they’ll be sent off to bed before too long.

Eventually, though, he can no longer avoid the tightness in his chest that is a desperation to play — to play the night away, specifically. He wants to get _home_.

It feels like a step backwards to feel his crush in full force once again, now that he is no longer _distracted_ , but at the same time it is not like it was before. He cares for her with a depth that even his finest wordsmithing cannot put to paper, or to song, but the knowledge of his one-sided feelings has been cemented by her own admission of general disinterest.

There is no world where he would put himself upon her, physically or emotionally — it makes him feel sick to consider it. He will put himself back in the shoes he wore as a student, and teach his heart anew to be satisfied in full with their friendship. If all he can do is help her thrive and find joy, that is more than enough to bring him happiness. He won’t stop _feeling_ as suddenly as he might like, but it will come with time. He never had a chance — now or in the past — and that’s okay.

Of course he always wants the people that will never want him.

Jaskier plays out his set, turning his mind off and focusing on the music alone for several hours. The tips are a satisfying weight in the pouch he gathers them up into, cleaning out his lute case, and he packs his things away as his evening draws to a close. He wants, so badly, to go straight home, but he pays for a meal instead.

Lena looks at him oddly for it but doesn’t comment, and it is only while she is away scooping up a bowl of stew for him that he realizes — this is the first time in weeks that he has lingered long enough to eat. She’s probably noticed him chasing Marta’s skirts — did Lena know she was a married woman? Or was she just minding her own business? He’s not sure he wants to know.

The food somehow smells even better than whatever the herbalist had been cooking during his visit — though perhaps that is a matter of his hunger — and he tucks in quickly. There is ale at his elbow for his dry throat, and he is not quite interested in talking (he can hear Geralt scoffing at even the idea of it) after playing for so long.

It takes real effort to sit in one place long enough to eat it, but he knows it will take an act of the gods themselves or a lot of cajoling to get her to eat dinner with him, and he doesn’t want to further wreck his routine; it’s off-course badly enough as it is.

Still, once he’s eaten and bid Lena a good evening, he heads out with a spring in his step. It is early enough that the moon is rather low in the sky, probably even earlier than when he made it home last week. He’s looking forward to this. He wants the opportunity to pamper her, if she will give it to him.

Except…

He makes it home and opens the door to find that she is not, in fact, in the bath. And maybe he shouldn’t have expected her to be — perhaps he is wanting too much, to spend that time with her while she is so vulnerable.

So, instead, she is folded up in her normal place, legs covered with a blanket and a book in her hands, and she smiles brightly at him when he steps inside. She does not _look_ like a woman waiting for the tub to be delivered, either, and —

“Where’s the bath?” he asks before he thinks about what he’s asking — he hasn’t even said ‘hello,’ yet. And, if she really is uncomfortable being nude in front of him, he has crossed a line. He puts his lute case away and begins to hunt through his pockets, hoping to salvage his terrible opening. The pouch of coin he’d earned goes on the sideboard, as does his key, and —

“I… didn’t take one?” She sounds curious herself, confused, and he looks back up at her as she shuts her book. “I knew you’d be back early and didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

She — didn’t want to make _him_ uncomfortable? Is this honesty or her sparing his feelings? Does he want to know? Why can’t he let this go?

He finds the vial, deep in his pocket, and pulls it out. Crosses the room to hand it to her. Even if she’s being honest, or even if she’s lying, he wants her to have it. “I found some salts at the market this afternoon that I thought you might like. I was hoping you’d get some use out of them.” He doesn’t mention that he went for this reason alone. That’s too much.

“You… did?” She does take it from him and removes the cork, sniffing the contents. The little smile that curls the edges of her mouth makes the purchase worth it. “Thank you, Jaskier.”

“You’re most welcome, my dear,” he says, and sinks into the chair like a puppet with its strings cut. Had he truly been so worried that she wouldn’t like it? Wouldn’t accept it? He’s given her half a dozen gifts so far, just little things picked up on impulse, and he’s not cared about any of them like this. There’s no way she’s invested in this like he is — he shouldn’t even _be_ invested like this. If she hadn’t liked it, she still would have taken it with no hard feelings. Still — “I didn’t mean to ruin your ritual,” he apologizes, knowing that it’s his fault she’s not cozy and soaking by the fire. “You’ve seemed so relaxed these last few weeks.”

She’s been pliant and warm and soft every Friday night for weeks now, and her sweet little smiles and murmurs when he comes home have been fulfilling for no acceptable reason to him. Her slow stretches in the mornings, after a night of solid rest and an evening of obvious relaxation, have only been doing her well.

She stammers, puts her hands in her lap still gripping at the vial. “I mean, your comfort meant more to me than a bath,” is what she says. He looks toward the fire as his brow furrows on its own; he doesn’t want her to see his consternation. But what he’s thinking is — is this a longer-running ritual than he had known? Has he been in the way since the moment he arrived, and her stresses have been his fault?

“I was never uncomfortable,” is what he says, unwilling to put his thoughts to words and hurt either his feelings or hers with that conversation. The _last_ thing he could be is uncomfortable, with her. Or, because of her. Any and all of his discomfort has come from his own needy heart.

“…It’s a bit late for a bath now, but… I suppose I could take one tomorrow,” she says quietly, biting at her lip. She’s thumbing the cork stopper of the bottle, and why can’t he stop looking at her hands? He needs to stop this. He should have stopped this ages ago.

“I can go to the market while you soak,” Jaskier offers, trying his best to follow through on that idea. He won’t invite himself along to her bath; that’s crossing a line. They need some things, anyway, so it’ll be a useful trip.

But she says “I don’t care if you’re here while I’m bathing.” Says “you’re good company,” with a level of low, sincere earnestness that only she has ever been capable of. Like it’s obvious, and she’s saying it just for him. Though, she must be.

It’s hard to think about the guilt that comes with her trust in this regard in the face of her soft voice, in the face of those words. He feels more than a bit uprooted by the statement, instead, and fumbles together a reply and an excuse for himself to — to do something other than sit at the table next to her and keep her conversational company.

Except, in response to the statement that he’ll be working on a new song, she says ‘you’re going to have to treat me every week, if you get me used to that.’ As if his idea to workshop a song as a distraction is a guise to serenade her and — well, maybe it could be. If it wasn’t overstepping, and even if it doesn’t _come across_ that way, the opportunity to serenade her would come straight from his heart.

But instead of telling her no, because he is _weak_ to her, he smiles and says “I could arrange that,” instead. Even if she doesn’t want _him_ , she wants his presence and his talent, and he can scrub the love out of the words he will sing tomorrow.

She goes back to her book for a while and he gets up and goes to the bedroom, dresses down into something more comfortable with his robe pulled over it. He’s well aware by now that she won’t want to be disturbed while she’s reading, so he returns with his notebook and tries to put together a song to workshop in the morning, so that there is validity to his prior excuse.

And then her stomach growls loudly, breaking the silence, and when he looks up she is already sheepishly looking at him. “Sorry?”

He sighs dramatically, even though this is normal and not at all unexpected. If she _had_ eaten, he would be more surprised. But there’s no platter left over on the table, so at least she did eat lunch.

“I don’t know how you lived before me,” he teases, getting to his feet. Despite the fact that he was rather comfortable and, frankly in the middle of something, he goes to pull on a pair of breeches and make himself decent. “When Lidia gives me dishwashing duty for bothering her so late at night, please remember me fondly,” he dramatizes under her watchful eye — she’s looking at him again when he leaves the bedroom.

“You don’t have to go — do that,” she says, looking awkward but, he thinks, a little fond.

“And leave you here to waste away? I do think not,” he insists, touching her shoulder as he passes by behind the couch. “I’ll be back soon. In hopefully one piece.”

He’s fairly sure Lidia won’t be _delighted_ to see him at this hour, but the other option is directly breaking into the commissary, which is absolutely worse. So he heads downstairs to her rooms, just a few paces from the landing, and knocks at her door. There is light bleeding underneath it, at least, which is the only thing keeping him from further considering a break in.

“Jaskier,” she says flatly, looking very tired and a touch annoyed to see him. Normal, then. “What can I possibly do for you at this hour?” He wonders if she knows all the residents by name — probably, right? Or maybe he is just a special nuisance.

Well. He definitely _is_ that. Any way to be special counts.

“My lovely woman, you look absolutely fetching by firelight,” he starts, hoping to smooth the way with flattery, but she’s not impressed. The roll of her eyes says ‘get on with it,’ clear as day. So, instead of trying to smooth-talk his way, he admits — with some embarrassment, despite the fact that _she_ is not legitimately his responsibility — that _she_ had forgotten to come down for dinner, and would Lidia mind loaning him to the key to the commissary? Pretty please? He’d be sure to lock it back up and leave it just as tidy as when he came in.

He watches her breathe in through her nose, looking at him in the way Geralt used to, when they were just barely acquaintances. At least, he thinks, she won’t punch him in the gut.

“If you leave a mess for my girls I _will_ come drag you out of bed to clean it up in the morning,” she says, pulling a ring of keys from her pocket. She gives him a heavy brass one, nothing fancy, and narrows her eyes. “You have fifteen minutes, and you will return that to me when you’re done.”

Ohh, she’s a lovely woman. Truly lovely. He’d tell her as much but he thinks she wouldn’t appreciate hearing it, and instead gives her a polite nod and scurries away to the kitchens.

Fifteen minutes is simultaneously plenty of time and no time at all, but he makes it work _and_ makes no lasting mess in the process. Perhaps that’s because he brings most of the messy bits with him, but that’ll be fine — a loaf of day-old bread, a small block of cheese, and a knife to cut it with… He finds these things quickly, ticking off his mental list, and gives up on the idea of sausages as time ticks closer to being up.

He carries the platter back out with one hand, careful not to drop the knife on his own foot or otherwise, and returns the key with what he thinks is plenty of time to spare. Lidia is at the door immediately when he knocks again, and he thanks her more profusely than she probably wants as he hands it over. Still, she’s done him a favor, and he’ll try not to ask for it again — even if that means he comes home early enough to make sure she eats dinner every night himself.

Upstairs, he _perhaps_ gets a bit overzealous in making sure she eats. Jaskier is beyond aware that she’s a competent adult, but keeping his hands busy slicing the cheese into little bites while she’s pulling apart the bread — it satisfies something in him. He has to restrain himself from hand-feeding her, especially when he remembers the last of the grapes from their market trip and sinks into a seat next to her with them in hand.

Luckily for him, she seems amused or at least unbothered by it, and eats most of the food. What she doesn’t eat will keep until breakfast, even if the bread is a bit more stale by then. And, unlike other companions he has kept — _Geralt_ — she thanks him more than once for making the effort. It’s not unusual for her, but he is finding ways to compare her to Geralt more and more often in his head lately, and that makes it its own sort of novel.

She does curl back up, after, well-fed and cozy, with her blanket and her book, and he gets his notebook from where he’d left it on the table. Most of the lyrics are done, but he needs to work on the melody — maybe if he hums it, it won’t disturb her too much. When he settles back into place, her folded legs press against his thigh, and she reaches out blindly to throw part of her blanket over his lap. She is such a — There are no words for what this woman makes him feel. He’s a terrible wordsmith tonight.

He’s drawing out the music when she speaks next, after a long period of mostly-silence (if you don’t count his humming, which is not _noise_ but _music_.) “I still don’t know the answer to your question,” she says, and his eyebrows crease together while he tries to figure out what she means. It’s been so long since either of them spoke that he’s — forgotten whatever their last conversation was.

“My question?”

“From last week,” she clarifies, gesturing toward the fire, and —

“…the sex question?” he asks, hoping he’s reading the right of it but knowing there is very little else she could mean.

“I appreciate that you know my mind well enough to put that together,’ she says, smiling, and he can’t help but laugh. It’s like a little spark of light in his chest, being appreciated like that.

He makes a smart remark, unable to keep it in, wanting her to smile a little more, and then encourages her to continue.

“I… still don’t have an answer to it,” she admits. “I mean, I’ve been thinking about it but…” She rubs her face. “How did you even find out about… this?”

Oh, she’s going to hate his answer. “Mostly by… talking to people.” He doesn’t quite understand her introversion, but he knows some days she would rather chew her arm off than talk to anyone for fun. The way she rolls her eyes at him makes him grin.

“ _Obviously_ ,” she scoffs, and he sets aside his things, to give this his full focus.

“I mean it! People are a wealth of knowledge and of stories, even if it is ‘just’ about their lives.” And he really _does_ mean it. Even before he was getting a wealth of tales from _Geralt’s_ life, the lives of regular folk have always been interesting to him. If of sufficient drama, sure, they can be turned to song, but… Between his noble upbringing and what he can see now of Oxenfurt as a city in a vacuum, he still yearns to know the lives of ‘normal’ people. Farmers, blacksmiths, innkeepers and peasants; women and children and men alike — he cannot be a man of the people if he does not know the people.

“You’re kidding,” she says, sounding unamused but not entirely disbelieving.

Explaining how he’s come by his knowledge to her touches his heartstrings in a way that he is struggling to understand. Maybe it’s the idea of imagining her in the boots of the farmer boy in Aedirn, or the lovely woman in Lyria, but — Well, he hasn’t lived their lives, and though he hadn’t been in a position to outright _ask_ them if they were satisfied with their lives, he assumes they were. Or, at least, satisfied enough. But all he truly knows is how to love the way _he_ does, to find joy the way he does, and he wants, desperately, for her to find some manner of joy and love herself, if she wants it.

When he finishes his explanation and looks at her — _really_ looks — she’s staring down at her lap, at the cover of the book she’d been reading. At her hands. She looks uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” he says, biting his lip to keep some of the words in. He should have thought more about what he was going to say before he started rambling at her. “I didn’t mean to bore you with my stories.” He would talk to every person on the continent and learn their life if it meant he could help her find happiness, but obviously that is not something he can say to her.

“I’m not bored,” she says, taking a deep breath. “Just thinking.” That, at least, soothes some of his worry.

But, he wonders… Well, in for a copper, in for a crown. “Is there someone out there you might bed, if you had the chance?”

She doesn’t answer immediately and his stomach is full of nerves as he wonders if this is it, where he’s finally overstepped, and then she says: “perhaps.”

It’s committal and noncommittal all at once. If she didn’t have someone in mind, she would have just said no. Before he can stop himself, his earnest mouth says — “Won’t you tell me who? Is it someone I know? I could tell you all the right things to say, you know.” He’s going too far, and he knows it, but he can’t stop. “I would never let someone reject you.” It takes monumental effort to press his lips shut, to just watch the side of her head as if that will give warning to her reaction.

“I… I don’t think you could talk them into my bed, Jaskier.” She sounds so defeated. So sad. “It’d be better for my relationship with them not to try.”

“And for you to never have the experience of a fulfilling relationship? Darling, that sounds miserable.” He tries to make it — _lighter_ , even if it’s not funny.

It doesn’t stick. “I mean, I’ve been living without one this whole time, right?” She tries to smile at him and it looks terrible. He wishes he could hold her.

“Well, I won’t push you. You know your heart better than I do.” Jaskier doesn’t want to argue this, won’t drag her down into a place she’s clearly not happy to be. Forget this _distance_ — he scoots closer, wraps an arm around her shoulders despite his internal misgivings. Her comfort is worth more than his heart, here. She leans heavy against his side like she can’t hold herself up at all. “…but if you change your mind, or you want my help… You only have to let me know, hm?”

“I know.” She pauses for just a moment, and then — “You’re the best friend I could ever ask for.” It does gut him, just a little, to have confirmation clear as day that he is not the object of her affection, but he bears it well enough.

He holds her against his side for as long as she lets him, staring into the fire. She’s silent, lost in her own thoughts, maybe? He surely is, trying to figure out who she could have been thinking of. If he ignores the way his chest hurts, it feels like trying to solve a riddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll have proper end notes on the chapter six page, but -- thank you for reading this. every review or kudo or -- any of it. it's meant the world to me.


	6. chapter 6 rough copy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much like chapter five, this is the rough-rough draft version of chapter six, that is sitting in my scrivener begging for another set of eyes to look upon it. and -- well, it's already written, so despite the fact that there is little intention in my heart to write chapter seven, or even honestly to finish chapter six, it feels a bit amiss not to share it
> 
> so, my apologies in advance for the very hard stop at the end of this chapter, because apparently i lost my train of thought somewhere in the middle of a scene in june and never got it back, if the way everything else looks is to be believed.
> 
> this is unbeta'd and unrevised, but it was written with love.

He’s at The Bell the next week, playing for a lively enough crowd, when he catches Shani’s eye over his eager audience. They always like the stomping songs, the clapping songs — the rowdy songs, really — the best here, and it means he’ll be able to make an excuse for a break soon. At least enough to take a few breaths and say hello, so she doesn’t string him up the next time they do cross paths.

“You were staring quite a hole in me over there,” he says as he approaches, mug of ale in his hand. “Is there something on my face? In my teeth?” He sits against the edge of her table, waiting for her reply, but she just _stares_. He rubs his face just in case, and _this_ is what she laughs at.

“You’re so paranoid,” she says around her laughter, taking a big drink after.

“This is my livelihood, you know. I would rather not make a fool of myself,” he says, meaning it but joking all the same.

“There’s nothing on your face,” is her reassurance. “I’m glad I caught you here, though.”

“I’m here every week at this time,” he says, and she rolls her eyes.

“Obviously so, Jaskier. I’m doing you a favor, stop interrupting me.”

“Oh, yes ma’am, of course,” he says, putting up his hands in faux-surrender. She snorts.

“There’s a bit of a party this week,” she says, watching him. She turns the mug around in her hands, back and forth. “The faculty is celebrating the end of the semester, or something — I don’t have to teach, I don’t know. But I do know there’s dancing, and wine, and plenty of lovely men and women in fine dress for you to shake your stick at. Except I haven’t heard confirmation of your attendance.”

“One,” he says, putting up a finger at her. “That is the worst turn of phrase I have ever heard, and I think I’m insulted by it.”

“You think?” she asks lowly, smirking, but he carries on.

“Two, I had no idea there was a party.”

“You mean _your girl_ didn’t tell you? I know that she knows.”

“I mean… no? She’s probably not interested in going.” She’s definitely not interested in going. She hates outings like that; he’s still surprised she bought a dress from Antoni with a party of any kind in mind at all.

“And that means you won’t go?” She sniffs. “You’re awfully well-trained for a man that insists he’s not involved with her.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but the good people that are here for his performance are starting to get rowdy in a different way, and he stands up. Leaves his ale for her to drink if she wants to — and she probably will.

He gets back up on his stage — which is, to say, that he stands on the table in the center of the room that Stefan has arranged for him — and begins to play again in earnest. But the thing about playing music he’s played a thousand times before means it gives him time to think, to let his hands and voice do what they know well to do.

Even after Shani gets up and leaves — which he sees happen, especially because she waves one hand over the crowd in goodbye — he doesn’t stop turning it over in his mind.

He might like to attend the party, might not. The last time he went for a ‘distraction’ it didn’t turn out well for him, and he doesn’t much like being away from _her_ for any longer than he has to be. It’s not good for him, probably, but when has he ever done anything good for himself? Geralt would probably actually laugh if he proposed the concept.

But the thing that is making him want to go — that is making him want to persuade _her_ to go — is that… It’s so likely that her beloved is there. Perhaps they just need to see her, to _see_ her, and for her to see them, and then they will fall together like the notes of his music do. Easily, as if they are meant to be there.

Convincing her to go will be the toughest part, and finding whomever it is that she desires will be the next most difficult part, and getting over his own soft heart for the duration of the night is after that. Really, that’s truly the orientation of things. But he can put himself and his own feelings aside for one night, if not for the rest of the season, if it means that she will find the happiness he thinks she wants.

He gets tipped admirably well considering his distraction for the better part of the night, and wolfs down his dinner while making idle conversation with the barkeep. There’s no way to know what they talk about — his brain is somewhere else, trying to decide how to broach the topic in a way that will grant him success. She can be so hard-headed, sometimes.

It is an incomprehensible miracle that he does, actually, convince her to go to the party. She even admits that it’s possible for her beloved to be there, which is a confirmation he really did want. He didn’t think she had friends outside of the university — honestly didn’t know she had friends _within_ the university, because she doesn’t talk about them. But it’s confirmation nonetheless.

Sat together on the couch like they do so often, with her legs in his lap and his heart in the wrong place in his chest, he touches her bare ankle and promises she won’t have to talk to anyone she doesn’t want to. He knows well enough that that is at least half her trepidation — has seen, often enough through the years, how difficult it is for her to learn to like people enough to _want_ to speak to them. He knows her so well, too well, and he hopes that this other person can claim the same.

Now, the question of _how_ he will find them, and how he will vet them — because he _will_ — has come to his mind. Maybe — “Won’t you tell me who’s caught your eye?” She doesn’t look up at him, from where she’s been hiding her face for most of the conversation — is she embarrassed? It doesn’t often happen, and he doesn’t want this to get too heavy. Doesn’t want to ruin her idea of this event before it even happens. “Or are you going to make me guess?” he teases. If she would even smile, or breathe a little laugh, that would be enough to soothe his nerves. He always pushes too far.

Silence stretches for what feels like forever, and then she looks at him. A smirk is growing on her face as she says “you can guess, and I’ll let you know if you get it right.” He can’t stop looking at her.

“I accept,” he says instantly, grinning because he cannot fail to return the energy of her expression.

“Good luck,” she says, stubborn as she always is — she will not give him any clues, he knows. She nudges him with her free ankle and then she laughs, and then of course he is laughing. For one long and lovely moment, he is _not_ thinking of who her heart is set on.

* * *

That long and lovely moment is nowhere near long enough. He’s got two days — less than that, really — to suss out the person in her heart, and there are a _lot_ of potential attendees for the party. Even if it is mostly just staff. Trying to make it as natural as he can, so he does not seem _quite_ so earnest as he feels, he lists off everyone he knows that works in the residential wing. If it’s someone she’s friends with, he’s probably at least seen them in passing, and he does have quite a knack for names. Other than the excess of yearning he’s collected this season, it’s just about all he’s gathered.

She says no to all of them, laughing at some of them. Maybe he’s being funny and he doesn’t know it, though he thinks that usually he is well-aware of his humor. Or maybe he’s too focused on crossing names off his mental list to see it. Either way, she’s laughing, and he supports that however it happens.

He gets home from The Lattice and Rose the next night to find her in the bedroom, sitting on a low stool and seemingly trying to tie her hair in knots. He’s been thinking of names all night, half-present in his set, though the audience was not so forgiving for it tonight. It’s alright; he has quite an amount saved, even after paying Antoni for an expedited outfit.

But this isn’t about him, right now, except for his burning curiosity. “What’s got you twisted up like this?” he asks, leaned against the doorframe and just — watching her. He thinks, briefly, of his mother and how she would sit at her vanity, and then sweeps the thought away. This is a far better sight, lacking the gaudy ostentation and heavy airs of the estate in Lettenhove.

“Trying to — figure something out,” she says, sounding unhappy. She sighs.

“This doesn’t look like one of those ciphers you like so much,” he teases, coming closer and giving in to the urge to put his chin on her shoulder. It’s only because he wants to see what she sees, really.

What he sees first is his own stupidly lovesick eyes, and he forces himself to focus on her face instead. As he intended.

“No,” she says, sighs heavily under his chin. “I want to do Antoni’s dress justice, and it’s not as if I have a hat I could wear with it, and it’s too late to commission one.” A hat? On her head? The _horror_.

“You have no business wearing hats with hair this nice,” he says, carding his fingers through it from the nape of her neck to the ends. He knows she would not appreciate him addressing the idea that she thinks she’s not worthy of that beautiful dress, though he really desperately wants to say something to — validate her, assure her of her beauty. But he knows better. She takes unwanted compliments much like he takes Geralt telling him to go away: not at all, and noisily too.

When he asks, she tells him that she doesn’t do her hair for events, doesn’t _go_ to events, which — he had already known, really. But he can’t help the noise he makes when she admits to it, entertained in a way that maybe he shouldn’t be, to know her so well.

“You’re hopeless, my dear,” he tells her, pressing his head against hers gently, not to knock skulls but out of affection. Too much affection. “I can help you with your hair tomorrow, if you make it home at a decent time,” he offers, still looking at her face. Lidia hadn’t loved that he’d told her with such little notice, but he’d promised her advertisement by word of mouth, and that seemed to appease her. She’s a good woman, and her husband helps her run a delightful establishment. He’d be amiss not to give it, anyway.

“You wouldn’t mind? It wouldn’t be too much?” She sounds so unsure that it pulls on one of his endlessly loose heartstrings and —

“I would do a great many things for you, and prettying your hair up is not even a hardship,” he says, too sincere. But she doesn’t look alarmed or displeased by his words, just soft around the eyes when she meets his gaze in the mirror, and he forces his nerves to settle. He’s been watching so much of his words and admissions around her; even toeing that line feels like inviting disaster, though at least in this instant it did not.

“Thank you,” she says, and he’s not — quite sure what to say to that, as he stands up and begins the process of combing out her hair with his fingers. Sure, he’s still in full dress from performing, but if he steps away he may lose this opportunity to pamper her — and to experiment for tomorrow. He won’t have her attending the party feeling anything less than perfect.

Instead of anything else, he tries more names against the one in her heart and mind. He’s had all day and night to think of them, and he’s running out of time. Even though she groans when he asks the first one — Nataniel, who he’s met at the library — she doesn’t seem unhappy when she tells him no.

* * *

He accidentally oversleeps and is running late to get to Antoni’s to pick up his last minute outfit. This is largely a consequence of who he is as a person — he’d stayed up too long after she’d left for work, thinking and turning his mind in circles. He’d dropped into a nap and slept like the dead, and now he will be very lucky indeed if Antoni hasn’t gone home for the day. Of course, Antoni’s home is connected to his shop, but it’s the principle of the thing — Jaskier is a more respectable customer than that.

“Master Jaskier!” the man himself sees him coming from the front of the shop, calling his name and waving an arm over his head. He hasn’t been in this much of a hurry in weeks, though this is a far more delightful purpose than running from Marta’s home.

“Antoni!” he calls when he’s closer, slowing to a quick pace instead of the jog that’s stolen the breath from his lungs.

“I was starting to worry, you know,” he says, and opens the door to the shop, leading Jaskier inside. It’s much warmer than outside, almost warm enough that he’s overheating, but — it doesn’t matter. Not when Antoni is unveiling the masterpiece he’s put together in two days just for Jaskier.

The fabric is a shining grey that looks nearly silver in the light, and he reaches out to touch it. It is a masterwork to be something made in such a short time, softer than it has any right to be and beautifully detailed besides. The amount of coin he paid for this is not nearly enough —

Antoni is proud to talk of some of the detailing he’d been able to work in — a detailed stitching of lines that come down in a vee at the buttons and buttonholes, blooming shoulderpieces in a riff just off the current style. The breeches are a mesmerizing swirl of impossibly lighter grey — he’d only picked out the fabric for the doublet, leaving Antoni to his own devices for the rest.

“You are a master and a talented man, Antoni,” he says at long last, when the man’s excitement has tapered down some. He’s not brought much coin with him, but he brings out his pouch anyway. “Please take this as a tip from me.”

“You and your young lady are terrible about trying to put your money in my hands,” he says, not taking but not outright denying the money either. He hasn’t forgotten the first incident with _her_ , ages ago now? Though, he supposes getting coins dumped in your lap would be something to remember.

“It doesn’t feel right not to pay you for your work, my good man.”

At this, Antoni nods, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Tell me, the next time we cross paths, how well you matched together, hm? You’ll be a snowy vision together, dressed in these things I have made for you both.”

Does Antoni know he picked the grey to match her on purpose, or is it coincidence, and he is just very observant? Well — it is probably something he does out of professional practice.

Before he can stick his foot in his mouth, Jaskier convinces him to take the coin, takes his new clothes in return, and bids him goodbye so he can beat a hasty retreat home.

He tries to keep his pace reasonable on his way back to the academy. They may be cutting it close already, depending on whether or not she’s home by the time he makes it back himself, and while he can appreciate being fashionably late, he has a duty to perform tonight. He needs to lay eyes on every person that she hasn’t shot down already, and the sooner he has his target the quicker he can arrange her love match.

She’s standing in the middle of the den when he makes it in, still dressed in her dayclothes. “You would not _believe_ how much of a bind you put me in, with such late notice,” he teases in lieu of a real hello, revealing his remarkable outfit even as she apologizes to him. “I only jest,” he offers as reassurance, laying doublet and trousers over the back of the couch to keep them from wrinkling; there’s no point in hanging them when he’ll be getting dressed soon.

She’s still looking at him, looking strangely, and he is so full of pent-up energy and the knowledge of their looming event that he crosses the room to meet her. It feels natural to touch her shoulders, wrists, hips, checking for nerves or for anything else besides. She is a vision even in her vest and breeches, ink on her hands, and he can’t help but smile.

Her hair is undone and he reaches up to put his fingers in it when she makes no move to stop him in response to anything else; it’s softer than it has any right to be and it _is_ going to be a treat to style it. Or maybe that’s just because it’s hers. Hmm…

“It will take some time to do your hair, but we can wait to put your dress on until after. I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he says, and it’s at least half-true. The memory and promise of putting his hands in her hair has been dogged on the heels of half his thoughts.

“You’re in charge here,” she agrees, looking stiff, and — that will never do.

He gets the stool from the bedroom so she has somewhere comfortable to sit and puts her gently in place between the table and the fire. The table is probably his favorite seat in this whole place, if ‘next to wherever she is’ is not a valid option. She seems easy-going about it, though she had also suffered his experimentation the night before with no complaints. He wishes he could be so still and patient with someone else, but — that’s just not in his blood.

Sometime on his walk home he’d had a bit of an epiphany, and he shares it as he runs his fingers through his hair, moves on to the fine-toothed comb he’d brought from the bedroom. She groans when he brings it up, and he’s not sure if it’s genuine or not, but she doesn’t tell him to stop, so — “I’m going to wait until we make it to the party, and the moment you see them, your face will light up! It’s impossible that it won’t happen.” She likes to get smart about how expressive _his_ face is, but he’s seen her flip from neutral to _delighted_ by something as simple as him holding up a jar of honey in her direction at the market.

“I don’t think that’s going to work,” she says, much like he’d expected, because she’s never been optimistic a day in her life. Why can’t she just let good things happen to her? He’s trying to help.

He lists off all the ways she’s gotten happy in his presence that come immediately to mind — the little trinket stall at the market, the way she’d beamed when he’d revealed the honey cakes he’d bought in secret. She tries to convince him it’s just materialistic joy, but — he knows better.

“Now tell me, when I discover the one your heart desires, what will you do?” Even as he says it, he imagines her crossing the room and falling into their arms, face a joyous pink and eyes alight with love. His stomach twists. “Maybe I should bring my lute.”

“The lute is barred from going and you know it,” she says, instead of answering. “Otherwise you’ll spend the whole time trying to upstage whomever they’ve chosen to play.”

 _Trying_? “I don’t think you mean ‘trying,’ dear,” he says, putting on airs about it. He knows too well how much she cares about him; it may not be as much as he _wants_ , but he knows she would never imply he was an inferior performer.

“Of course, what was I thinking. You’ll spend the whole time outplaying the band, and then you won’t do any of the socializing I know you enjoy.” The sarcasm is heavy in her words, he can almost hear her eyes roll in her head. Oh, the smart mouth on this girl.

His hands are full so he can’t pinch her cheek in retaliation, and he’s not in a position to jostle her with his feet. Instead, he pulls her hair aside — on its way to being half-braided — and blows a sudden breath over her ear. The way it makes her jump is satisfying enough, but she turns her head so quickly that he’s stretching to keep her braid intact, hands following her hair.

He bickers with her as he encourages her back into place — there’s a while to go yet, and he wants this to be just right. Wants it to be perfect, for her. Conversation circles around to Geralt, and some of his traveling tales and…

“I bet he appreciates you a lot,” she says eventually, in a lull in conversation. He’s almost done, fingers not cramped only through sheer force of will. Nearly there.

“Why is that? Not that it’s not true, but I would love to know what you’re thinking.” He tucks away the ends and touches her shoulders. “And we’re done, let me see.”

She turns around as instructed, but her expression is watery, face half-crumpled by whatever is in her head, and — “If we’re so alike, then it must be because I appreciate you more than I can say, too,” she says, voice sounding tight with unshed tears. She’s twisted out of his touch, and he reaches for her shoulder again, trying to comfort her, but she dives into his arms instead.

She sniffles against his shoulder, and he frowns at the wall beyond her head. “Are you crying?” Why is she so upset? “Dear girl, please don’t be sad.”

“I’m not sad,” she insists, voice muffled against his chest. He presses his cheek gently against the side of her head, conscious of the effort he’s put in even though, in the face of her emotion, he’s not sure that he cares. She squeezes him around the middle, pulling tighter as if she’s trying to burrow into him, and he tightens his own grip. “I’m just… thinking about how much I’ll miss you, when you’re gone.” She pauses, takes a shaky breath. “And I don’t want you to feel taken for granted while you’re here.” _Oh_.

“I’ll return with time,” he says, looking for more words as he rubs his hand down the expanse of her spine. Her body is shaking, just enough to notice. Words failing him, he goes for levity instead: “Especially if you’re willing to put me up again.”

“I’d house you for the rest of my life,” she says, voice small but nonetheless honest for it. She sounds raw. For once in his life, he’s — not sure what to say.

Levity again, then, because making her smile is better than nothing: “You may regret saying that to me, someday.”

“Unlikely,” she says, sniffles. She shifts, as if she may finally be hugged out or just uncomfortable, and he rubs his hand down her back one last time.

“Come on, it’s time for us to get dressed. And you’ll need some cool water on your face, or you’ll get all splotchy.” Would she be beautiful, red-faced with tears in her eyes? Yes. Is it the look Jaskier thinks she wants to wear to this party? Absolutely not.

She gets to her feet and goes to the bedroom, pushing the door shut behind her, and Jaskier takes one moment to breathe before he gets up himself. It feels like a strange surprise for her to have gone from docilely listening to him talk to — crying about _missing_ him, of all things. He doesn’t doubt her sincerity, but that doesn’t make it any easier to understand what she’s thinking, not really.

He dresses quickly, unconcerned for his own modesty but distracted by his thoughts to a point where muscle memory takes over. He does take a moment, however brief, to truly appreciate Antoni’s handiwork — the seams are straight and almost invisible, the fabric soft and fine. There’s no mirror in the room, but he feels like this is easily his most wonderful outfit yet. It’s going to be a horror to take on the road, but, well, it will be a beauty tonight, and that is what counts.

He sits again at the edge of the table, watching the door to the bedroom, waiting for her to come out. He has nothing to do but wait, and he is not inclined to rush her. He just wants the first sight of her in that blessed dress.

Except she comes back out of the bedroom in the same clothes she entered in. Her hair is still as he put it, and her face is clean and dry, but —

“Sorry for crying,” she says, coming closer to him. Even though she’s standing taller than him, she looks small. He gets to his feet, then, because if she is in need for another dosage of hugging he wants to be ready.

“Nothing to be sorry for, I assure you. I know these have been a few emotionally fraught days for you. Soon we’ll have resolved the trial of your heart, and you’ll know peace again.” In the time he’s been left to his own devices, he’s come to the conclusion that her concern about how tonight will go — about how confessing her love will go — is why she is so tightly wound. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

“You seem to think it’s so easy,” she says, sounding defeated still, and he chews the inside of his cheek for a moment.

“I do.” She’s watching him, somewhere between just listening and rapt attention. He needs to comfort her. “But if you truly don’t want to go… Or if you want me to drop it entirely, just say the word.” He needs to stop pushing this, if she is so uncomfortable. Her happiness on her terms is more important than this idea he has, and even he knows it. Values her friendship over his own goals, in this regard especially.

“No, I— I want to go. For you.” It’s a sweet thing to say, but —

“And for your mystery lover?” She still hasn’t given him an answer — does he need to drop this topic?

“And for them too, sure,” she answers dryly, rolling her eyes. “But mostly for my dearest friend.” The lilt of her voice as she says it makes his heart take flight, minute though it may be. “You deserve a fun night.” She mentions the idea of _people catching his eye_ and he has to bite his tongue to keep from rebutting that idea. She’s not even dressed yet and he knows he won’t be able to look away from her with any ease. Still, first —

“And how are we supposed to go if you aren’t even dressed yet?” She laughs, then, and nods her acknowledgment, and then she returns to the bedroom to dress.

The door is cracked this time — he can hear her opening the wardrobe, the rustle of clothes — but he busies himself with anything else. He’ll see her in her outfit in due time, and he has no business thinking about what’s happening on the other side of that door.

Maybe he has gotten worse. Maybe it is because he knows this will be far more easily nipped in the bud once she is in the arms of her beloved, and his stupid heart is trying valiantly to express every desire it has ever had on her behalf. Or the stupid rest of him is behaving in line with that besides.

Still, he will be good. He’s better than this, really. He straightens the books on the table, folds up her blanket from where it’s strewn halfway across the couch, pulls the curtains into a position where he likes them, and with nervous energy is trying to style his wild hair when --

“Can you give me a hand?” he hears her call from the other room, too attuned to the sound of her voice to miss it, and he calmly walks to the door.

“What’s that?” He’s not going to just invite himself in if he misheard her. He sticks his head around the edge of the door, to better hear her, and sees —

Well. He sees. Her back is to him, chin over her shoulder as she looks in his direction. Her dress is… mostly on, pulled up over her hips and shoulders, but the wide, smooth expanse of her back is laid bare to him. She’s not even wearing a chemise. Melitele preserve him. “Do you need some help with that?” She’s holding the sides of the dress, as if to try to fasten them together herself, and —

“If it’s not too much trouble,” she agrees, sighing and letting her hands fall away. Giving up. She’s right when she says they’ll be waiting a long time for her to do it herself, though — he’d seen the awkward twist of her arms.

His mouth runs on its own as he puts himself to this task that he has been given. It feels like an honor even though he knows that there is nothing honorable about his thoughts, or about the way he is putting her on a pedestal right now. She’s just a person, but he’s bent at the waist to see what he’s doing — the clasps are truly fiddly little things — and the little bumps of her spine beneath her skin keep catching his eye.

And besides, her skin is soft — not a surprise, really — and warm, and wonderful, and the idea that someone else will help her _out_ of her dress, later tonight, twists his stomach. She doesn’t want him, and that is fine. He’s more than able to respect that. But it isn’t keeping him from imagining what that mystery lover might see, when they undo all of her clasps and lay her bare to them. Or, lay her further bare. He knows too well that she will want to talk it out before things progress past something chaste, but there’s nothing wrong with that, either.

His hands are shaking when he finishes the last clasp, out of eagerness — to get to the party; out of nerves — because she is _so_ close; because of sadness — she is going to leave him, after this. He takes a step back after he’s done, after he’s pushed the little wisps of hairs back up into her updo, and she turns her head to follow his motion. “Alright, show off for me.” Show off for me all the time. Any time. I only want to see you.

A little wriggle of her shoulders and then — she spins to face him and turns her hips, bringing the hem of the dress up into flight with the motion. She turns in the other direction, fabric twirling with her, and he takes her distraction as an opportunity to take a deep breath. The smile on her face — tempered by the shy manner she asks for a compliment with — it is everything.

“You are going to be the most beautiful person in that room,” Jaskier says after a beat — too long? She’s looking at him again, now, and her face goes pink when he says it. He yearns to cup her cheeks in his hands and feel that warmth beneath his fingers, but — that’s not how this works.

“Surely not more beautiful than you,” is her unexpected and sweet reply. What is he supposed to do with that? This is not a compliment he was prepared to take, despite the fact that he yearns for judgment most of the time.

His brain is stuttering as he says: “perhaps we will be most beautiful together,” because while it is true it is not exactly what he meant to say. He holds out his arm, and in a fumbling attempt to recover, to turn the lens of this back to her, says: “the one who holds your heart may well approach you before I get to ever find them myself.”

Crossing the campus from her quarters to the hall that has been turned into space for the party is like something out of one of his dreams. The moon is just barely rising, invisible on the horizon except for the light it gives off beyond the buildings. The stars are shining and the air is cool enough that she walks closely at his side, but not so cold that their breath shows.

She’s quiet, in her thoughts or mentally preparing for the party itself — anything is possible — and he finds that he can’t find words, either. Or, safe words. There are a thousand things he could say — he wants to remark on the curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulder, the shell of her ear. He wants, desperately, to stop and hold her back, to keep her here with him instead of going to this party where she will be seen and — where she will be _seen_ , by the one she loves. It’s selfish and he hates it and he kicks himself even as he thinks it.

Shani finds them near the door, barely inside, and it feels like he’s walked into hell. He likes Shani, a lot. But she knows him far too well, knows his critical secret in this regard, and the assessing look she has laid on them is heavy and sharp.

“Happy to see you lovebirds made it,” she says, smirking, and his stomach drops out.

Still — “Good to see you too, Shani,” he returns, because she might throw her wine on him otherwise. He looks away from her, then, not wanting to meet her too-knowing gaze, and scans the room for _her_ beloved instead. Really and truly she is too beautiful for her to escape their notice for long, if they are looking. And if they aren’t looking, he will give them a piece of his mind.

He glances past the band playing in the corner — he can’t tell but he assumes they’re not students, and for once in his life the music is not the point, here. There are a few people he recognizes from going to the library to see her, near a table at the back — did he ever suggest their names? He sees plenty of people that he _has_ suggested and been shot down with regards to, though. Hmm…

Her hand moves on his arm, grip shifting, and he turns his attention back to her. She’s trying to pull away — gods, of course she is, she’s not here _with him_ , Jaskier, get it together — and he lowers his arm, lets her go. “Won’t do to have your beloved see us linked together, hm?”

She makes a little noise, something he can’t understand over the dancing music, and Shani speaks up: “what’s this about your beloved?”

Trying to find a delicate and accurate way to explain the situation without addressing the fact that _he_ is not her beloved — which is probably what Shani wants to hear from him, improbable as it would be — is difficult. Trying to spin it in such a way where it comes out of his mouth as a positive — which it should be — instead of the resigned thing that it _is_ for him… is harder. He’s saying something about being a failed matchmaker — which he already feels a bit like — when she catches his sleeve in her fingers, tugs for his attention.

“Don’t worry about it, Jaskier,” is what she says, and he frowns at her. “They’re not here.” That’s… both what he does and doesn’t want to hear.

“Not yet, anyway,” he agrees, trying to make it positive again. “But the night is very young. We have time.” He will find love for her if he has to snoop through every corner of this campus.

Shani’s eyes are a weight on his face when she says “why don’t you go get some drinks?” and it is with some trepidation that he looks aside to _her_ , to see her opinion but also in a desperate bid for an out for that request. Who knows what Shani will say if he leaves them alone together. He’s not even sure how well they get along together, and he promised not to leave her alone, too…

“That sounds good,” is what she says, looking back up at his face. He keeps his face in his plastered expression. “I’ll be fine; I’m not some wilting flower.”

“I know you’re not,” he amends, offers, tells her he’ll be right back in a way that is hopefully a comfort. No matter what she says, she looks out of her depth.

It is a too-long journey across the room to the refreshments, past several of her peers and ruled-out names, past his old adviser — who he makes a moment of small-talk with before begging out in such an uncharacteristic manner that the man lets him go. The room is full, bustling with people as the music changes and more people spin into dance in the center of the space. Others are laughing, talking, standing out of the way with their mugs.

He gets two cups of wine, barely paying attention to his own choice, and dodges conversation with several people in an attempt to quickly return. Tonight isn’t _about_ him, and while he could be using this time to — to network, sure, he could also be using this time to keep Shani from burning his facade down around him.

There’s a strange and uncomfortable expression on her face when he returns, cups held like a lifeline, and the way that Shani ducks out of the conversation immediately makes him very nervous for what she said. But there is no immediate confrontation from her, and she does not pull away from him when he comes to stand at her side, so he thinks he must be in the clear.

They’re half in the way and, touch still accepted, he ushers her across the room to find somewhere for her to sit. She does take the seat, looks grateful, and he internally sighs just a little. He continues to scan the room, to scan her face, looking for that lit-up expression he’d hoped would put everything together for him. He’s close to — to asking for her to tell him, if only so he can take the opportunity to speak to them on her behalf, when he remembers that they may not even be here. Perhaps that is an explanation for the way she looks around the room.

“It’s really alright if you want to go socialize, you know,” she says after a long, though relatively comfortable, silence. Or, well, silence when you ignore the band making a racket in the corner; they’re music-adjacent at best.

“What friend would I be to leave you alone?” He promised, after all, and tonight, he does not much care if he speaks to anyone else, even though no one is so loaded as Shani is.

“A friend that tries to enjoy himself when I ask him to?” she returns, smiling up at him from her seat on the bench, and — gods above, why can he not get over her smile? “I mean, I definitely didn’t come to this party for me, so you may as well enjoy it.”

“…are you sure?” Was the agreement to come for her beloved just a platitude she gave him because she knows he enjoys these social environments, or is this borne from their absence?

“I’m sure.” A beat, and then she grins. “Besides, perhaps that person you’ve been looking for is just scared away by your charisma, and he’s afraid to talk to me.”

Jaskier knows very well that he is charismatic, charming. But her sentence is a one-two of flattery and curious surprise: a compliment followed by her admission that it’s a man she’s looking for. And, from the way she worded it, he could be here after all.

“Oh, so it is a ‘he,’ hm?” he confirms, filing away his affectionate feelings for later, or trying.

“Sure.” She doesn’t sound much like she cares. What _is_ she thinking?

“Well, if you put it that way, I suppose I would be remiss in my duty to your love life to stay here and scare your lover away,” he says, mouth working independently of his brain once again. If she’s willing to use it as an excuse, or if he means it, he should honor her request to go and — party. He glances out towards the partygoers, hoping the man in question may appear through the crowd. “If you need me… Don’t be afraid to let me know, alright?” He needs to know she will be comfortable here, out of her depth.

Of course, she also attempts to convince him that she is accustomed to attending these parties, which he is not inclined to believe, but — she has a habit of making her own needs seem inconsequential. He makes rounds of the hall, taking the time to talk to everyone that he had skirted by on his way to rescue her from Shani’s plotting. He speaks to so many people, but it all feels like one mass of an event: he doesn’t remember much of any conversation, for all that he participates in it. Instead, he makes sure he can keep an eye on her whenever he stops to talk, restraining himself only barely from craning his neck over the crowd.

Some people have approached her — Dominik, who he knows she works with… Did he ever rule out that name? Is he the one? But he leaves, too, returns to his own group, so maybe not? Maybe he is and they’ll meet later?

When Shani returns, he feels abruptly very nervous. She had said something about making her own rounds, but the idea that she might return and, with good intentions, make trouble for him now —

If he weren’t in the middle of conversation with the his old adviser, he’d cross the room in an instant. But he is, and — she doesn’t look upset, when he puts his eyes on her again and again. He can trust Shani more than he is currently doing, surely.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t intend to go to her immediately, however. Except when his adviser leaves two younger women are almost literally in his wake, begging details from his time with Geralt — which, in theory, he does not mind to give, because cleaning up Geralt’s name is more than just singing a few catchy songs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all, again, a thousand times over, a) for reading this abrupt and probably rough-looking chapter and b) for being here at all. if this fic has made you smile, or made your chest squeeze, or has meant something to you at all -- that is what really matters to me. if i have been able to convey even a single feeling to any one of you, that is enough for me.
> 
> seriously. if i could even -- smile, at every one of you, i would. i'm getting emotional typing this ending note. i'm just going to -- stop, right here. thank you, one last time, for making this journey with me, and for all your patience.
> 
> please feel free to come talk to me or give me a follow on [tumblr](https://ragequilt.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/ahrhi_169)!


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